


Skulduggery Pleasant: Death Bringer

by purplejabberwock



Series: Skulduggery Pleasant: Dead Men Walking [7]
Category: Skulduggery Pleasant - Derek Landy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Gen, M/M, The Dead Men (Skulduggery Pleasant)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-15
Updated: 2020-02-15
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:22:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 48
Words: 144,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22727581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/purplejabberwock/pseuds/purplejabberwock
Summary: The Death Bringer has risen. A Sensitive has seen imminent Armageddon. The clock is ticking. A dozen different motives are colliding. After this one, nothing will ever be the same again.
Relationships: Desmond Edgley/Melissa Edgley, Larrikin/Dexter Vex
Series: Skulduggery Pleasant: Dead Men Walking [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/49976
Comments: 121
Kudos: 78





	1. Melancholia

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AmaraqWolf](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmaraqWolf/gifts).



> Happy love day! ... Is it still Valentine's Day? I may have sabotaged myself trying to account for time-zones.
> 
> As always, a reminder to the uninitiated that this is not the published canon version of Death Bringer.
> 
> Hi. I've seen a lot of comments going on in the recent couple of months and have been cackling to myself. I do want to reply to everyone who comments at least once this time around -- it's a lot of work but I kind of miss the engagement.
> 
> To answer the predominant question I've been seeing, however: Yes, there is a fic for Saracen's first time meeting the Dead Men. Alas, it is not mine; that one's under AmaraqWolf's auspices. Last time I saw a copy, though, it was almost done -- so go and shower them with love and puppy-eyes. 
> 
> Otherwise, I'm confident enough in my personal writing development to declare that you'll all get the next fic after this within the year. Yep, by next Valentine's Day you'll have the next instalment, guaranteed. I have other news too, but I'll put that at the end of this monster.
> 
> Enjoy, take care of yourselves, and I hope your year is a good one.

For years High Priest Craven had had two cravings. Firstly, to usher into reality that which all necromancers worked toward, that which was their ultimate goal: that is, the Passage. The second was to do so from a position of such authority that no one could question it. Two years ago, fortuitously, the second fell right into his lap. It had not been the way Craven envisioned it, mostly because half the people in the Irish Temple were unconscionably disrespectful and seemed to feel as though he had not come to his authority with every legitimacy.

Craven strode through the hall of the temple, glaring at an acolyte whispering to a companion on the corner. He’d caught the sound of Wreath's name in that conversation. The acolytes blanched and scattered, and it didn’t do much to assuage Craven’s seething sense of injustice.

“Hear that?” he snapped aside to Quiver. "You’d think the temple isn’t in need of a high priest. It’s just blatant flouting of authority at this point.”

“As you say, High Priest,” answered Quiver evenly, and even though that was how Quiver almost always answered anyone, in the moment Craven hated him for it. “May I assume —”

“Yes, yes, go ahead and action.” Irritably Craven waved his hand at Quiver. One thing he had not envisioned was that the position of high priest might, at all, in any fashion, encompass paperwork. Maybe signing a page or two, but given the amount of work he’d had as a high cleric he had assumed Tenebrae had simply … delegated. Quiver did not let him delegate.

What was the point in being High Priest when he didn’t get the appropriate respect nor was given his entitled time to pursue his own betterment? People didn’t always do what he told them! That was the most basic part of being a high priest!

No, they all did what Wreath said.

Well. That would soon change.

Quiver departed and Craven continued striding through the halls of his temple, which he earned on his merit. There were places in here not everyone knew, and places they might but that didn’t matter. Craven was the high priest, which meant no one was allowed in his inner sanctum except on his say-so. It was fortunate, because at this time Melancholia St Clair was strapped to his stone work-table, shivering with cold and magic. When he entered her eyes rolled toward him, and Craven resisted the urge to recoil from the sweat dripping off her.

“It hurts,” she whispered, and Craven reached out to pat her hand, withholding the way his lip wanted to curl.

“Only for now, my dear. Soon it will all be over, and you will have proven the truth of things.”

A few days ago she would have asked about that ‘truth of things’, and Craven would have spouted something about saviours being capable of being manufactured or the reality of her being Death Bringer. But that was a few days ago: now her head rolled and her breathing was ragged, and tears were mixed with sweat.

“It hurts. Please — I don’t want to do this anymore.”

Craven patted her hand again. “I understand. You’re doing fine. This is only the difficulty before the end.”

“Make it stop …”

“Soon it will stop on its own,” Craven reassures her, watching the way the way the darkness in sigils shifted across her body. China Sorrows made sigils that didn't need to be seen, but China Sorrows hadn’t bound Death inside of a man, had she? The simple act of weaving invisibility into such spells was a waste of effort. These days, people knew who the Death Bringer was.

Not Wreath, of course; oh, no. The Death Bringer was inside of him, just waiting to be unlocked. The Temple healers had made extensive notes of the imprisoning sigils, notes Craven had in his possession, as is his right as the Irish High Priest. If they were made to bind, well … all it would take was a scholar of competent degree to unbind.

Idly Craven wondered whether Death would appreciate having a body to live in that wasn’t merely a suit of armour, and then was forced to put the wondering aside when Melancholia writhed suddenly with a short cry of pain.

“It hurts —”

“It will all be over soon,” Craven promised, and patted her hand again. Once upon a time he’d planned to use this girl to create his own Death Bringer. That was then: this is now. Death Bringers imprisoned in people weren’t thick upon the ground, but someone undertaking their Surge for the first time was surely close enough to the kind of power he’d be dealing with. Melancholia’s magic had been all locked up for days, and now that her Surge was imminent — well. All Craven needed to know was whether the bindings would hold, and whether they could be unlocked afterward.

That was when she started screaming, which was not unexpected but still made Craven wince. He took his hand away, since she no longer seemed to notice the touch, let alone any false comfort she might have derived from it; and instead he went to his books to make some notes and watch. The walls were thick here. Too thick for screams to be heard.

No shadows moved, as they should with an ordinary Surge, and Craven felt a thrill of vindication. Had he done it? Bound her magic all up in her body, until there was nowhere else to go but inward? His fingers traced across the map he’d made of the binding sigils, looping and circular. He had done it, and he knew where each of the keys lay in every crux of the prison. He knew exactly which sigils to change to release Death unto the world.

Without looking up Craven lifted his amulet, and a spear of shadow cut off Melancholia’s screams as suddenly as they’d begun.


	2. The doctor is in

Dexter Vex looked at himself in the mirror, and the man who peered back was familiar in a way which made Dexter wonder when the hell he’d become this person. He looked tired. He looked tired a lot lately. It’s not that he didn’t sleep. Maybe it’s that he found sleep too easy. It was one of the few things that was, these days.

Dex glanced through the bathroom door, toward the bed and the rumple of sheets and blankets that was Rover curled up around a pillow, still dead away. They weren’t in Anton’s room downstairs, not because of Anton’s issues, but because, well … it wasn’t war-time anymore. There were some things about the lack of privacy in camp life that Dexter had never quite been able to get on board with. And it was expected, after all, to actually care about other people being around while you had sex, when the circumstances actually allowed for it.

He hadn’t. That was the problem. His emotions were a yawning abyss of nothing inside him, like they’d been torn out along with the Remnant. Most of the time lately he felt like he was just going through the motions, even where it came to things he once would’ve cared about.

That was how he felt now, too, brushing his teeth and taking a shower and all those things people do when they get up. Rover hadn’t stirred by the time he came out of the bathroom, and when Dex looked at his phone the text from Hopeless was still there, inviting — ordering — suggesting? — to meet up for breakfast before the day begins. It was early yet. Too early for the likes of Dex.

He went downstairs anyway, boots on and phone in his pocket, and pulling a jacket on. Anton wasn’t in the lobby. Dex could hear him cursing out the mop-bucket in the kitchen. This was prime time for Anton, before anyone else in the Hotel woke up; and time was that Dexter would go and see if everything was okay, or at least try to defuse things in the normal, ordinary, humorous way the Dead Men did when things were weird and shouldn’t be. Instead Dex headed for the garage door. There were days he saw Anton looking at him and felt like he knew that Dexter wasn’t feeling things right, and envied him, because now Anton was feeling too many things; and even though five — six? almost six — hundred years of restraint left habits in him too strong to ignore, now Anton Shudder did things like swear at inanimate objects.

The Hotel had never been emptier.

One of Anton’s cars, unused for the last year, sat next to the orange monstrosity Rover insisted Dex fix up for him last year. Dexter looked at it for a moment, then at the empty space somewhere around, and lifted his hands. He could envision every piece of a motorbike these days, what with Tanith spending time from the Hotel; but her bike was missing, which meant she was probably in Dublin with Ghastly. Didn’t matter all that much. Dexter knew what they looked like inside and out. Time was that he would have found a motorbike boring, with nothing in the way of music or radio to provide. These days it seemed … efficient.

As efficient as atoms re-ordering themselves at his behest.

Was there something wrong if he was better at energy-manipulation than he’d ever been, without any emotions to get in the way? Hopeless would probably say so. Hell, Dexter would probably say so.

When he mounted the bike and turned on the engine it revved satisfyingly, the way a bike should; and a few minutes later he was speeding down the road toward Dublin. It took him almost the whole way there to realise he forgot to make a helmet, and then didn’t bother stopping just to do it, safety or no safety.

The Hotel wasn’t in its usual place far outside Dublin, but somewhere closer near the highway — near enough to drive in for an early-morning meeting. When Dexter got to the cafe Hopeless was already there, seated at one of the tables under the plastic awning providing cover enough to keep out the chill breeze but not take off his scarf. He wasn’t the only one there, but when Dexter waited for surprise he felt nothing, not even dull irritation at having to pretend. He’d almost made up his mind to actually ask Hopeless about this. Almost.

He left his bike by the edge of the area and strolled in and sat down, pulling off his gloves. Hopeless pushed over a cup of hot chocolate, which would have been exactly what Dexter wanted, if he’d been able to want things. He wrapped his hands around it anyway, just in case pretending he was just fine will encourage Hopeless to keep pretending, and finally looked at the third at the table.

“You look familiar,” he said, just to say something. The man had a cup of tea in front of him, but he wasn’t drinking. Hopeless might be the only one who was.

“This is Moribund,” Hopeless said, lips moving to maintain the illusion of speech and thoughtspeaker hidden by a ridiculous bobbled woollen cap Saracen had once given him for Christmas. Dexter should find that cap funny, he really should. He always had in the past.

He didn’t laugh, just looked again at Moribund, and tried to decide if that cold feeling was his stomach shrivelling up or just more of the same. “The Remnant consultant?”

They’d sort-of met, briefly, at the Government Buildings; if it could be called a meeting when he’d been half-dead from having a Remnant ripped out of him.

“He still doesn’t know,” said Moribund to Hopeless, but his gaze was on Dex.

“I haven’t told most of them. There hasn’t been a need.”

“Told me what?”

It was very nearly a surprise that Dexter volunteered that demand. If it could be called a demand. Did that count as curiosity?

Hopeless looked at him. “Moribund is a Remnant too. He’s one of those from Kerry.” Dexter definitely felt a stirring of something, but he wasn’t sure what, so he took a silent sip of his hot chocolate instead. Somehow Hopeless had got them to make it with real chocolate. Or maybe this was one of those few cafes that did. “He was imprisoned in the Sanctuary, but when I became Grand Mage I reviewed all our cases to see whether any of them were still threats. Moribund is one of those I had released.”

“A Remnant wasn’t considered a threat?” Disbelief would be the appropriate emotion there, but instead Dexter’s words came out sounding flat.

“Not this one,” Hopeless said. “You remember. Remnants want for connection.”

Wordlessly Dexter took a mouthful. It burned the inside of his mouth and he didn’t care. It sure stopped him from having to answer, at least for the moment, but Hopeless still waited and Dexter knew from experience Hopeless was far more patient.

“I remember,” Dexter said finally, and it felt like a confession. People who’d been Remnanted didn’t usually remember. The Remnants weren’t so generous with their knowledge as that. “Not everything — but I remember bits and pieces.” His hands curled more around the mug without his meaning to, but he only felt the heat on one. The other, the heat was dulled by his special glove, where he could feel it at all. “I remember how it felt.”

_I could never hurt Rover._

"Remnants don't have consciences," Hopeless said when Dexter fell quiet, "but people do, and the soul is more resilient than people give it credit for. Given enough time, someone permanently Remnanted can start to feel things — or at least start to want things — that they didn't before. It's possible for a Remnant to stop being a psychopath. Or at least to manage the condition like any other perfectly ordinary psychopath."

There was a weird little flip in Dexter's gut. "Descry —" He shook his head. "I don't know where you're going with this."

"You aren't going to feel the way you do forever," Hopeless said quietly, and Dexter's spine went rigid. It felt weird, because it was disconnected from the usual feelings which cause those kinds of reactions. He felt like those feelings were wrapped in bubble-wrap, while his body went and did whatever it wanted.

You don't know what I'm feeling was an extremely stupid thing Dexter had never, until now, felt the urge to say; and Hopeless was the one person he couldn't say it to.

"How do you know?" he asked instead, and this time didn't try to hide the flat weariness.

"Because I didn't," said Moribund. "I don't feel things the same way normal people do. If I had to kill somebody, I wouldn't feel much guilt over it. But just because I'm a Remnant doesn't mean I have to keep acting like one. So I choose not to."

"It's the most basic facet of sentience the Remnants don't understand," Hopeless explained. "Until they're exposed to the act of choosing, they don't know that choice exists. They can't possibly comprehend how it defines an individual. At least, not until they become permanently bonded to a host. There's no solid evidence you can diagnose psychopathy based on brain scans, but I would lay money on a bonded Remnant's neurology being functionally the same as a natural psychopath's." He smiled at Moribund. "Which is how I've been approaching his therapy."

Hopeless gave therapy to a bonded Remnant. Of course he did. Dexter snorted and that was a surprise. "How does it work?"

"Mostly by habit," Moribund told him with a shrug. The shrug came a fraction of a second too late, as if Moribund had had to tell himself he wanted to affect dismissiveness. "Anything is a choice. To a Remnant, some choices are easier than others, and those are the choices that are repellent to everyone else. Perform certain choices long enough, and they become habitual, and whether you actually have the feelings matters less than the fact you're doing things that way."

"But it's all fake."

"It starts becoming real," said Moribund. "I have a wife. I have kids. Do I care about them? I'd say no. I don't get warm fuzzy feelings. But when I think about the possibility they might die tomorrow — I don't like the thought. Is that care? I don't know. But it's close enough."

"Habits form neural pathways in the brain," said Hopeless. "Emotions help form them, which is where traumatic reactions come from, but they do it on their own if something is repeated often enough. Eventually the habit is so ingrained that changing it takes more effort than not changing it."

Like with Anton? Dexter asked without asking, and Hopeless tapped a few fingers absently on the tabletop in a way that coded to an affirmative. Good to know Moribund didn't know everything, then. Or maybe Hopeless was just being polite with not indicating Dexter had asked a question.

He'd thought this all sounded familiar. He remembered Hopeless telling them that with Anton, after he'd been checked out of the Tír's hospital. Hell, hadn't he just thought it earlier as a reason not to go check on Anton cursing at the mop-bucket?

There was a very faint smile on Hopeless's face, one which Dexter only hoped was caused by imagining Anton trying to swear; and the silence got a bit much even for Dexter now, even with hot chocolate to sip. Slowly the seats around them were filling up. He didn't really want to have this conversation with more people around.

"So Moribund isn't a threat," Dexter said finally, "because he's putting into practice a bunch of habits which mean he acts like an upstanding citizen, and as long as he keeps that up, he functionally is an upstanding citizen, and occasionally might even feel something close to love."

"Something like that," said Hopeless, and this time his smile was smaller and gentler, one that made Dexter look away before he realised he even wanted to. Now why would he do that, if it didn't hurt, somewhere under all the bubble-wrap? Instead Hopeless took one of his hands and squeezed. "You have an advantage there, Dex. You aren't a Remnant."

"Enough of one."

"I can't say how much of what you're feeling is because of permanent bleed-through," said Hopeless, "and how much is just traumatic shock. It's been a year, and that's a bad sign. You haven't felt the desire to go around murdering people for the fun of it, and that's a good one. But if a fully-bonded Remnant can start caring about his family, then so can you."

So his option was to be a robot making sure he was programmed right. Fantastic.

Hopeless squeezed a little more. It was his good hand, the one whose knuckles could actually grind together. "And I don't think you'll be a — robot with judicious programming."

"Why not?"

"Because you're still reacting to things like you're in pain. And when you look at Rover, you're afraid of hurting him."

Was that what that was, under all the numbness? Fear?

"Fat lot of reassurance you are," Dexter grumbled, but he looked back at Hopeless and Hopeless's gentlest smile, and could almost feel where it hurt to look at him. His smile felt stretched and fake, but Hopeless's deepened to 'pride', so it might have been something.

"What was the point of me being here, exactly?" Moribund asked, and on anyone else it would have been an impatient demand. On Moribund it wasn't, and Dexter wondered whether that was because he wasn't feeling impatient or whether he'd chosen to hide it.

"For the two of you to meet, mostly," said Hopeless. "I think Dexter could benefit from your insight and experience for the next few months. Only if you want to offer it, of course."

"Of course," Moribund muttered, but he didn't sigh or act otherwise exasperated as he reached for his phone. "Alright. Give me your number. What did you say to me when I was first released, Hopeless? Check-ins every day?"

"Every week for Dexter, I should think," said Hopeless, and added to Dexter, "nothing huge. Just a short phone call. Or a long phone call."

"I talk to you almost every day."

That was a total lie, Dexter realised after a moment. In fact, looking back, he didn't remember leaving the Hotel regularly, let alone when it was in Ireland — usually only when Rover dragged him out or Anton ordered him to take something to some bank somewhere or other along his route. Those hadn't happened as often as usual lately, either.

Dexter shrugged, and got out his own phone. "I could talk to you every day."

But that wouldn't be the same as talking to someone who was feeling the same things, or nearly the same things. Hopeless was Hopeless. Hopeless always knew. There was still a difference.

And, maybe, Dexter could help himself with Moribund than have to make Hopeless worry about him all the time. He's got a whole country to be worried about.

Hopeless huffed something exasperated and Dexter was a beat too late for his sheepish grin to be truly natural, but it was a start. It felt weird, having to consciously make himself do things that should be natural, but if Hopeless said it was better than nothing Dexter could give it a try. He didn't want to become the kind of person who smiled and felt nothing for people inside, like his father, but — if Hopeless said that wouldn't happen, then it wouldn't happen. Dexter could have faith in the Hopeless who had faith in him.

Hopeless pulled out his credit card and held it out to Dexter. "Go pay for all of us, will you?"

Dexter shrugged and took the card, and went inside to the counter to pay for all their drinks. Probably he just wanted a moment to talk to Moribund privately. It was still early enough that the line was only beginning to form behind Dexter, rather than in front of him, and in short order he returned to the table and Hopeless looked up, and smiled.

"Thank you. Do you want to come back to the Sanctuary with me?" He took back the card and rose and pulled on his jacket while Dexter tried to consider that. Did he want to? Key word being want? He hadn't wanted a lot of things lately, but 'want' was different from 'doing', which was what this whole conversation had been all about. In the end what decided him was that it was too much effort to try and figure it out, and by the time Hopeless was tossing his scarf more securely over his shoulder, Dexter nodded.

"Why not?"

"Good. Thank you, Moribund."

Moribund didn't say anything as they left, only waved a little belatedly, and picked up his unfinished tea. Dexter followed Hopeless past the other tables, and at the one on the end he paused suddenly to take a seat opposite the man there, facing them. A man, Dexter's warning senses pinged belatedly, with an overcoat and a hood and even a hat, to the extent that his face was invisible.

"Good morning, Tesseract," said Hopeless with a smile, and Tesseract shifted, and said nothing. Dexter also shifted, putting himself more at Hopeless's side and his hand on the back of his chair, where he can easily shove the chair away and get between him and Tesseract if Tesseract chose to lunge. They're just out of reach — just. "Bisahalani hasn't let you out of your contract, I see."

Tesseract shifted again and Dexter felt rather like he ought to be pole-axed, but something had dulled the blow. He kept his exclamation mental, at least. Bisahalani hired Tesseract?

This was one time it was just as well Dexter's emotions were blunted. His surprise didn't show on his face. Instead he just crossed his arms and glared some more at Tesseract.

"I know," said Hopeless to whatever Tesseract was thinking. "So I have an alternative proposal for you. I'll pay higher than Bisahalani, and you won't even need to change your contract much."

Finally Tesseract spoke. "You want me to kill you?"

Hopeless shook his head with that particular smile and crinkle of eyes that was laughter. "I want you to kill people who try to kill me. I'd still be your contract. You'd just be working to protect me, instead of the other way around." He reached into his coat pocket and fished out a card Tipstaff or Melissa had made up for him, and left it on the table as he rose. "Give me a call when you decide."

They go back the other way instead of leaving past Tesseract's table, giving Dexter the chance to pick up his motorcycle and wheel it along with them. He should've dissolved it, probably, but he hadn't thought of that; and it wasn't like he cared if it got stolen. Whoever stole it would get a shock in a few days when it vanished. Or fell apart, magically.

"Bisahalani?" Dexter asked as they walked, and Hopeless nodded, and gave him a small, tired smile.

"Fun, isn't it?"

"Oodles."

Neither of them said anything else until they reached the Sanctuary.


	3. Kenny

Kenny Dunne was many things. 'Capable of being on time' was not one of them. It wasn't that he didn't know he ran late, or the impact that had on the people he was late for. He just didn't seem capable of arranging things so he was not, in fact, late. This was the cause of a promising career as a journalist sliding down into the swamp. He'd been late for far too many important interviews.

Once again, he was late, and this might have been the most important interview of all. He hadn't decided yet. Either he was going to wind up with someone bursting out of a random door shouting 'GOTCHA' or he was going to become world-famous. If only he wasn't late.

To be fair, Dublin traffic on the day of a big game had something to do with it, but Kenny had a feeling that most people tried to account for that. Or maybe not, given how many people were cussing each other out from their car windows. It would have been better, if Kenny's car hadn't given up the ghost, and now the taxi was going nowhere.

Kenny paid the driver and got out on the street, waving to the cars in the next lane who honked him for cutting across them, as if it was his fault they weren't going anywhere. He couldn't be too far from the halfway house. Probably. He broke into a run anyway, and by the end of the block regretted it. Running was hard. Running made him jiggle in places he didn't know he could jiggle, and he wasn't even fat. Not fat like those people on those reality shows who copped abuse just for being fat.

His lungs were burning so he stopped running even after the walking lights turned green, but kept up a brisk walk, panting.

The man he was going to interview was homeless, and supposedly had visions. Kenny had met a lot of people who claimed to have visions, and met a lot of people who claimed to Know Something, and half the time they turned out fake or turned around and claimed they hadn't told him anything and can he leave now, thank you. Paul Lynch was different. For one thing, Kenny had met him three times, and he hadn't yet changed his story. He'd been wary, the way people were wary, and also weirdly filled with purpose given some of the things he said he saw.

He'd said, once, while looking Kenny unnervingly in the eye, that he'd been sent to find Kenny as his destiny. Kenny figured he was at least a little batty, but batty didn't mean wrong.

Kenny's lungs were burning by the time he got to the corner of the block where the halfway house was located, and he meant to go around the front, but a van roared around the corner into the alley at a speed that made Kenny jump back even from ten feet away. That van sure was in a hurry. Kenny's reporter senses were tingling.

He checked his watch. He was late. But when he looked around the corner, the van stopped in the driveway that belonged to the halfway house. Sometimes they needed cars, for deliveries, or to shuttle the unfortunates in their care here and there, or for ambulance access. Once, Kenny had seen a taxi pull up and deposit a man so beautiful Kenny was certain, in that moment, that faeries existed. That was after the first time he'd met Paul and spent some time loitering around the halfway house just to see what was there before he went back for a second go. Over time Kenny figured he'd been imagining the man, or at least his beauty, because if faeries existed everyone would know, right? But he hadn't forgotten.

What faeries would want with homeless people living at a halfway house, he didn't know. But he was burning to find out, especially since he was sure he'd seen that man again, more recently.

The van didn't deposit a beautiful man at the door this time. Instead it pulled up angled across the driveway and the side door was thrown open, and Kenny saw flashes of something that looked like old-fashioned armour and something shiny like a blade, and he groped for his phone without taking his eyes off it. Out of the passenger's seat came a woman with a flatly fierce expression and hair so closely cut that she was almost bald. She went around the van and Kenny sidled closer, trying to take pictures with his cheap phone and not miss anything at the same time. The van didn't even have a license plate.

He could see a little better now, and realised belatedly that he really did not want to be seen himself when someone came back out of the halfway house. The men weren’t in armour, but stiff grey coats which hid everything, and no blades that Kenny could see. That was a lot less exciting than actual armour. What was exciting was that some of them were carrying a covered stretcher.

One of the managers of the halfway house came out to talk to the woman with the close-cropped hair, and Kenny sidled a little closer, hiding behind an architectural pillar that probably helped in some way with the building's internal foundation while looking nicely art deco from the outside, and right now made a damn good place to hide. Too bad he wasn't close enough to hear anything, but he really didn't want to get close enough to people whose coat collars were so high that they hid their faces. All he could really do was take a damn lot of pictures, which he did, of the van and the men and the woman who was the only one whose face was visible, and the manager gesturing.

There seemed to be a lot of worry in the manager's gestures, and on her face, but the woman with the close-cropped hair just nodded and answered shortly and within moments she climbed back into the passenger's side. The stretcher was loaded into the van, and doors were closed, and then the van did an illegal u-turn to get back out of the alley and onto the street, taking advantage of an opening in the traffic that had horns blaring.

Kenny lowered his phone, hands shaking. His camera was full and he had gotten a glimpse of the person on the stretcher as they loaded it in through the side door. It had been Paul Lynch.

His contact was being driven off in a van filled with mysterious coated men. And he was dead, too, can't forget that.

Kenny whirled and went to the block's corner, peering around. The van was a few cars down, stuck in traffic like everyone else. Kenny half expected to hear sirens whirring so everyone would let it pass, but it didn't. Probably they didn't want to attract attention. Hijacking the body had taken less than a minute, and the halfway house was definitely complicit. Kenny scrounged in his pockets for his pen and pad and scrawled a note to look into the halfway house in more depth, and then set off along the pavement. As long as the van was caught in traffic, he might be able to keep up.

* * *

By the time the van got to its destination Kenny's lungs were screaming at him and his knees were made of jelly. He stumble-wobbled around the corner and, to a jolt of adrenaline, saw the van peel away out of the traffic into another alley. He'd never taken a whole street so fast and his vision was dotted with black spots when he got to the corner of that, but at least he was fast enough to see the van pull into an old rundown loading dock.

This whole area was pretty rundown, come to think of it. In fact, wasn't this where the old Hibernian Cinema was?

He looked up at the signs and found the one with peeling paint and broken light fixtures. It was: Hibernian Cinema, it said, plain as day.

He probably wouldn't be able to get into the loading dock. This was definitely some kind of government thing going on. Or extra-government thing. Were there faeries in government? It would explain why no one knew anything about them.

It would explain why that beautiful man in the taxi had looked so familiar. Kenny leaned against a grimy wall and gulped down air, and dredged through his memories. The debacle last year with the sudden outbreak of psychosis had been all over the news. Hell, Ireland hadn't recovered from it — with all the ports closed and the international scare, the last year had been very bad, economically, for the Taoiseach. Still, he'd managed it pretty well, most people seemed to agree, though who those 'most people' were Kenny had never quite been able to find out.

There had been some interviews right after the siege on the Government Buildings had ended, though, and while everyone had looked very frazzled and heroic Kenny had gone through every scrap he could find to see whether there was any evidence of what he'd been investigating over the years.

His phone wasn't a good one, but it had internet access, so Kenny hopped on right there and went browsing for some of those news articles; and it took some time but eventually he found what he was looking for, in the background of one of the stills of the Taoiseach: a brunette man with a face like an old-time movie star. Just a glimpse.

It was the same man he'd seen getting out of the taxi last year.

A sudden chill made Kenny shiver violently. Paul Lynch had told him he'd been 'sent' to find Kenny. Sent by who? And why? And what the bloody hell was a faery doing in a picture behind the Taoiseach and getting out of a taxi at a halfway house where Lynch's body had just been removed by people bristling with some kind of probable kevlar?

For a brief moment the idea of barging in and demanding answers swam in Kenny's head, and then he got a hold of himself, pushing himself straight with a groan. Why did exercise have to hurt so much? Why did anyone do it, when it did?

At least he'd kept up with the van, there was that, but if there were faeries around maybe he'd better actually pay more attention. Or at least walk more.

He went to the light to wait for it to turn so he could cross the street, and saw absolutely nothing owing to the fact that his whole body felt like it was trying to drag him into the pavement. He occupied himself by flicking through the pictures on his phone, trying to see if he could see anything, and scrawling down notes in his notepad.

He was on to something. He was most definitely on to something. Something related to magic, and visions, and inhumanly beautiful people, and maybe a little murder.

It was the murder that sold it. Everyone like a bit of murder in their revelations. It spiced things up a bit.


	4. Friends in same places

School let out to a thunder of students and chattering. It had warmed up since morning so everyone was in T-shirts and shorts, when they weren't in jeans, like Valkyrie. She didn't wear anything else, unless it happened to be the clothes Ghastly tailored for her. He had given her a long, silent stare when she suggested he tailor some jeans for her, so she still had to work on that.

She came out with the deluge that was the rest of the students and then loitered on the grass until her friends forced their way out of the flood. Ifrit was the first, and initially only visible because of his hand waving above the heads of older students, but when he broke free and made it toward them he was almost taller than Valkyrie, and all gangly knees.

"Is it just me or does that get worse every time?" he demanded, resettling his glasses on his freckled nose, and Valkyrie laughed.

"They do get new students in every year," she pointed out.

"And some leaving," said Natalie from behind. She grinned smugly when they both jumped, and stopped when she jumped back herself to avoid Valkyrie's fist. "Hey! Is that how you greet everybody?"

"It is when they sneak up on me," Valkyrie shot back, and finally grinned herself. "Okay. How'd you do it?"

"I am an acrobat," she pointed out, and sat on the nearest window-sill, swinging her long legs so the tapped the wall.

"You're a dancer."

"Sometimes those are the same thing. Where's Kara?"

"Here! I'm here!" Kara forced her way out of the tail end of the crush, panting and glaring over her shoulder. "Hey! Am I late?"

"No, we've got time before the bus comes," said Valkyrie, and Natalie hopped up, and they all turned toward the stop to amble over across the grounds, where they won't get jostled by students doing the same thing. "Anyway, do you all have time after training today?" She said it casually, trying to hide the pound of her heart. "We can cut it short, otherwise."

"Cut training short?" Ifrit asked, aghast. "No way!"

"None of the Dead Men are going to be there," Valkyrie reminded him. "Not today."

He scowled and reddened at once. "So? You guys are the ones with the crushes. Maybe I just like training with the lot of you."

"Do you?" asked Kara with great interest, watching his blush intensify, and he muttered something not even Valkyrie could hear, and didn't answer. She'd have cared more on any other day, but not today.

"Well, you know." She reached into her pocket as casually as she could manage, pulling at a set of ornately-made cards which she fanned to show them the title. "I just figured we'd all like to be properly prepared. You know. Just in case anything should —"

She was cut off by Kara's squeal, and almost yanked over when Kara snatched for the card on the end. "You got them! You seriously got them!? Oh my God!"

Laughing, Valkyrie let Kara fling her arms around her and gave her a twirl before they kept going down the street, stumbling into Natalie, who pushed Kara straight and snapped her fingers at Valkyrie. "Hey, where's mine? Come on!"

"That one's yours," Valkyrie said, pointing at Kara and grinning. "I got them to put your names on them. Cool, isn't it?"

She gave Ifrit his invitation and then Kara hers and tucked away the last two — one for her, one for Farley. Kara danced down the sidewalk ahead of them, crowing inarticulately and grinning madly down at it.

"We're going to the Requiem Ball! I can't believe you managed to get this, Val! My mum only got an invite because she's, well, you know."

"The nearest thing to a reporter we have?" Natalie filled in for her, tossing her hair back and gazing down at the invitation. Valkyrie could see in her eyes that she was imagining herself gowned and coifed, a handsome man on both arms. Valkyrie had had much the same fantasies since she'd found out she was invited.

"Yeah, and now she's stressing about having the right clothes." Kara's face fell. "Oh my God, clothes. I didn't even think of that."

"I did," Ifrit muttered, frowning down at his invitation half thunderously and half wistfully. He ruffled up the back of his hair, all self-conscious, and Valkyrie nudged him with her shoulder, grinning.

"I did too. What d'you think I'd shorten training for, anyway? Ghastly said he'd be in his shop later this afternoon. We're springing you for some proper clothes."

Kara's eyes went wide and she made some inarticulate noises, making grabbing motions at Valkyrie. Natalie looked startled and then as wistful as Ifrit had. "I don't know about Kara, but I sure can't afford Bespoke-tailored clothes."

Valkyrie dug her elbow into Natalie's side. "Didn't you hear me say springing you? As in, free? For you, anyway."

It had been a source of considerable discomfort for Valkyrie to find out that not all sorcerers were rich. She'd assumed, knowing the Dead Men, that all sorcerers had money stashed around in various places and lived understatedly due to habit or a desire to avoid drawing attention. Since she'd mentioned going to the Requiem Ball, she'd found out that wasn't the case. Farley's parents had been rich, but he'd been disowned more than a year ago. Kara's mother was well-off enough, but not enough to expect invitations for that kind of thing unless it was to record them. Natalie and Ifrit's parents were sorcerers who worked ordinary, non-magical jobs — with more ease than most, owing to having magic, but still really not anything to write home about.

When Valkyrie had asked, ignorantly, about inheritances and clans and compound interest, she'd been told in no uncertain terms that not every sorcerer was four centuries old, came from a clan or received an inheritance. It had been illuminating, in an awkward and uncomfortable way.

Now they were all staring at her in much the same way they had when she'd asked the stupid question, except instead of almost-indignation coupled with disbelief there was awe.

"You ... you can do that?" Ifrit asked finally, and hushed, and Valkyrie shrugged.

"Well, yeah. I mean, I can put it on my tab. Ghastly won't get it back for a few years until I turn eighteen, but he knows I'm good for it, and if he didn't then he knows where I live."

She grinned and Natalie snorted first, and threw her hair back, running her hands down her body in a considering manner. "Bespoke-tailored clothes." She said the words reverently. "Could he make me a dress? A dress I can move in, if I need to?"

"Probably. I'm pretty sure Ghastly can do anything with clothes."

"So we're going to the Hibernian," Kara said skipping backward to keep talking to them, "and doing some training or helping Farley out with the professor, visiting Gail, and then heading to Bespoke's. Farley's gonna drive us, right?"

Valkyrie nodded. "And Missy. Guild said he'd drop her off. He wanted to talk to Kenspeckle about something anyway."

Or rather Hopeless had texted to let her know that Guild had said that, but it amounted to the same thing. It would've been Mum, but Mum had been on maternity leave for a good portion of the last year. That was the other reason Valkyrie wanted them all to go to Ghastly's. She cleared her throat. "And you're all still coming, right? To the christening?"

"Yep." Ifrit nodded, wearing that strange little grin he wore when he found something weird but fascinating. It was often the same grin he wore when he was practising his fire.

"Your folks are really going through with that?" Kara asked, and because it wasn't Natalie, who was carefully silent, Valkyrie nodded.

"Yep. We all had a big talk about it and everything. In the end Dad said that there was no point in pissing off things you can't prove don't exist. Pretty sure Hopeless was gunning for it, anyway. He's Catholic, you know?"

"Yeah, and I'm still not sure I believe it," Natalie said, edges of snide in her tone. Valkyrie shrugged again. She'd gotten good at ignoring when Natalie got like that. Most times Valkyrie didn't really care except on principle, but in this case it was both her family and Hopeless Natalie was insulting, so Valkyrie had to work extra hard not to hold a grudge.

"I'm pretty sure I can arrange a session for you to talk, if you really wanted proof." She grinned then, just to show no hard feelings, and that was when they reached the bus stop, where there were too many other students around to risk talking about things like real magic. Instead that time, and the time on the bus, was spent talking about normal teenage stuff. Stuff like school, and teachers, and boys, and girls, and tailored clothes, and parties. There was a period while Kara and Natalie were sighing over the idea of tailored gowns, and Ifrit was wondering out loud how fireproof the clothes would be, when Valkyrie just sat and looked at them all and felt a great swelling of warmth in her chest.

She wondered, sometimes, where she'd be without knowing these people, or without having the Dead Men. Maybe Mevolent would have already killed her. Maybe worse.

But those were thoughts she didn't want to think about, so she stopped them in favour of joining the conversation. By the time the bus dropped them off in the city they were laughing as they walked toward the Hibernian, and around the corner toward the loading dock. By then Natalie and Ifrit were in front, and Kara was lagging and frowning across the road, so Valkyrie dropped back and nudged her again with her shoulder.

"Hey. What's up?"

"That dude." Kara nodded to a pedestrian across the road, and Valkyrie looked. It was a man, pretty big and not fit judging by the shininess of the sweat still on his face; not old, not even middle-aged, but not young either. He was thumbing through his phone and scribbling notes on a pad of paper with a broken-off pen. "He looks familiar."

"Where do you think you saw him last?" Valkyrie asked immediately. "On a street like this, or maybe inside somewhere?"

Kara shook her head. "No, it was definitely somewhere outside."

"Was he walking down the street, or just coming out of a door?"

"Door," Kara said after a moment as they turned properly into the alley, and the lights went so the man started walking across, still scribbling things. "Yeah. He was coming out of my house. I think he'd been talking to my mum."

Valkyrie craned her head to watch him some more, for a moment torn about running over to talk to him. Then she turned back and shook her head. "Sorcerer?"

"I don't think so," Kara said thoughtfully. "She does articles for mortals too. I'll ask her when I get home."

They crossed the alley, far less crowded than the road, and headed into the loading dock. They all had keys and Ifrit let them in, slamming the door open so it was still only just swinging shut by the time Valkyrie, bringing up the rear, slipped through. To her surprise Macha and Guild were just inside the loading dock, and some cleavers; and Farley was rolling a gurney into the laboratory proper.

"What's happened?" Valkyrie asked, her detective senses tingling, and Guild turned toward her with a scowl. She didn't let it bother her. Guild scowled at everyone, and at least he talked to her and acknowledged her like a human being, which was a far cry from his disdain when she was thirteen.

"Nothing," he said shortly, and when Valkyrie lifted her eyebrow his scowled deepened. "Nothing for non-employees of the Sanctuary to hear."

"We'll be going then," said Natalie cheerfully, cheerful in a cutting way because it was the only way Natalie was ever cheerful. She linked her arms with Ifrit and Kara and they all three went into the laboratory, even with Ifrit looking over his shoulder with longing curiosity.

Valkyrie and Guild watched the door closed, and then she looked at him again, and he looked at her looking, and muttered something under his breath, and finally nodded grudgingly to Macha.

"It was a pickup," said Macha briskly. Her expression was flatly fierce, like she'd like nothing better than to rip out someone's spleen. She'd looked like that ever since Gail was kidnapped and came back under name-thrall. Valkyrie had never seen her here to visit Gail, but when she saw how hard Macha went at her cleavers, Valkyrie knew it wasn't because she didn't care. It was because she cared too much. "Someone was murdered at a halfway house."

"Since when does the Sanctuary care about that?"

"It was a Sensitive called Paul Lynch," said Macha. "We wouldn't ordinarily care about that, but they called us, and the Grand Mage asked us to take care of it."

"I suspect it's related to whatever Hopeless has told Bliss but not me," Guild said stiffly, and Valkyrie very carefully curbed her first response.

_Yeah, and it's burning you up inside, isn't it?_

She didn't stop herself from thinking about it, though, and then felt slightly ashamed. Guild was an asshole, but he wasn't a villain. He hadn't even harassed anyone about it as far as Valkyrie knew, either, just occasionally was very stiff about referring to it. It probably helped that Hopeless had given _him_ some kind of super-special-secret job none of _them_ knew about, but which Guild had made sure they all knew he was doing.

"It's possible," she agreed. The Tír had to find people who needed it somehow. A halfway house would fit. She frowned. "Does Skulduggery know yet? If someone was murdered at one of those places, that's not good."

"I was about to call him," Guild said shortly. "He'll come here to look at the body."

Probably after that he'd want to go to the halfway house. Valkyrie hesitated. She wanted to go with, it was part of her training, it was why she was an apprentice — but she'd been looking forward to this evening for weeks. Her friends had never gotten tailored clothes before, let alone clothes tailored by Ghastly. She didn't want to miss it.

"I'll probably see him here, then," she said. She'd have to figure it out before he went to the halfway house. Maybe he could hold off for the evening, until tomorrow? No, that was stupid. A lot of things could happen overnight. And there was something ringing in Valkyrie's head, something that might have been relevant, but got forgotten in the rush. She shook her head to clear it. "Is Missy upstairs?"

"Yes," said Guild, and while his voice didn't soften, there was something a little less stern around his eyes and mouth. Valkyrie couldn't imagine Guild loving anyone, but he really did love his wife and his daughter. It made him seem human. It made him a lot easier to deal with.

It was for that reason Valkyrie nodded, and checked her phone's clock, estimating time. "We're going to spend about an hour here training and then Farley will take us in his van to Ghastly's. We expect to be there for dinner. Rover promised us ice-creams. After that Farley will drop her off at your house, no later than seven. If no one's there or anything seems suspicious we'll bypass and I'll take Missy home with me."

It wasn't the most efficient route, but it wasn't the least efficient route either, and it meant Missy was surrounded with people who knew enough magic to at least escape, right up until she was safe in her house again. The house was securely warded these days, and there were near-constant 'renovations' happening around Guild's backyard which were really an excuse for people to keep watch. Valkyrie knew, because something similar had been happening at hers, which made hers the next-safest place.

Valkyrie was watching closely past her fringe, and saw Guild's shoulders relax, and his expression was less stiff when he nodded. "That is acceptable. I'm going to stay here until Pleasant arrives."

He seemed almost like he was going to say something else, but instead he grunted and turned and strode away toward a different door than the one Valkyrie's friends had gone through. Macha went toward that one, so Valkyrie followed, falling into step.

"How's Gail?" she asked, because she couldn't think of anything else and she was fiercely glad to know that Macha was at least visiting.

"No change," Macha said in a flat tone even worse than the one the cleavers used. "But the Grand Mage arranged to have a specialist come to observe her. He said they might be able to dismantle the name-magic. No one's ever been able to do that before."

Valkyrie thought of Pandora, and almost smiled, and then actually did, but it was a bit fragile. "I know who he's talking about. She's really good. If anyone can do it, she can."

Macha stopped short and looked at her, and Valkyrie took a few steps to stop herself, and turned to look back. Macha's face was still flat, but her eyes were — hungry. It was an alarming expression. "How do you know?"

If it were any other grieving parent, her voice would have cracked. Instead it sounded ominous, almost threatening, and it was weird but that calmed Valkyrie right down. She smiled, and this time it was a truer smile. "Because she's been working on Myron Stray for the last year. And her name means 'hope'."

Something flickered in Macha's eyes and the wrought violence calmed, and she started walking again without a word. Valkyrie followed and didn't say anything again, and when they got to Gail's room the others were already there, talking to each other about the training they were going to do, and their plans to go to Ghastly's shop, and Valkyrie felt another surge of warmth. Back when she'd first started at St Mac Dara's, and found out about the Sorcerer's Club, she'd gotten the impression Gail had been the odd one out. Gail had told her some things strength and weakness, like all sorcerers believed that was how it worked.

She was glad it wasn't, or if it was then she'd been able to change that when she joined the Club. The group of them weren't anywhere near the level of the Dead Men, but they'd been through some things, even Missy. Sometimes Valkyrie wondered what happened to Henry, and hoped she'd see him at the Requiem Ball, but right now she was happy the rest of them were still together.

Sometimes, in her secret heart, she thought about the future and how awesome it would be to be part of her own little group, just as renowned and skilful as the Dead Men were. She was looking forward to finding out.


	5. Teaching themselves

After visiting with Gail the group left Macha there, standing silently at the foot of Gail's bed and looking down at her, and they all went to the large room which was used for storage and which Kenspeckle had grudgingly allowed to be turned into a kind of training room. Farley was already there, tidying up some crates left in the corner, but he straightened and glanced over when they all came in. Valkyrie was pretty sure he'd given her a second glance.

Missy was there too, sitting on one of the crates and kicking her feet, and humming with a handful of flames more smoke than fire. Kenspeckle had forbidden them from summoning fire in any room other than this one unless their lives were at stake, thanks to what happened a few months ago with Ifrit, a slight lapse of control and the Hibernian's ancient fire sprinklers.

"Skulduggery's going to come by soon," Valkyrie told the others as they peeled off jackets and got ready for training. "I'll need to go help him out, before we go."

She didn't give details, despite Kara's look of intense curiosity and the resigned face Ifrit made. She was an apprentice, and they weren't, and Valkyrie was a stickler about the rules. Well, about those rules, anyway. She didn't want to get them in trouble, and the more she toed the line now the more she'd be able to break them later. It was a long-term view of things.

Training without one of the Dead Men there mostly involved Valkyrie running them through forms and patterns. This was something Farley could join in with, and did, and he knew a little more than the rest because he'd told her privately a few months ago he was going to a mortal dojo. He still wore long sleeves, though. Valkyrie was suspicious, and yet didn't ask.

After that, while Farley took Missy aside with a book on Elemental magic, the rest of them tried some stuff with their own. Kara and Natalie had to work alone a lot of the time, but Valkyrie and Ifrit worked together, and most of it was stuff Valkyrie had already figured out — mostly.

"Careful," Kara yelped, jumping back from the streamer of fire that shot past her suddenly, and Ifrit grinned sheepishly.

"Sorry, sorry. Still working on that part."

"Did you finish watching The Last Airbender?" Valkyrie asked, not bothering to hide her amusement. That had definitely been a streamer of fire he was trying to pull off. It was really hard to do. Valkyrie had only seen the Dead Men do it, and Ifrit wasn't anywhere in their league.

Yet.

Ifrit nodded enthusiastically. "I knew I'd seen that show when I was a kid," he said. "I've been trying for years to figure out where I'd seen it, it's when I first got interested in fire. You're right — it's a lot easier to control magic when you're using gestures like that."

"You've got more control than you did last time you tried that," Valkyrie agreed. "How have you been doing with air?"

"Not so good," Ifrit admitted. "I'm not so good with all those fluid, sweeping gestures. Maybe I should stick with fire and rock; I like all the stomping around."

"A really first-class Elemental can use all four elements," Valkyrie reminded him, moving to the middle of the floor. "Someone like the Dead Men."

Ifrit looked longing, and then took a deep breath and shook out his limbs, and planted his feet. "Right. Let's do the fire tornado first, at least that's fun. Then I'll show you."

Valkyrie grinned and shifted her stance, and closed her eyes. She'd gotten really good at using air since last year. Knowing she could hold off Dusk for a little while had made her determined to make sure she could hold him off with him actually trying, too. Even if he was supposed to be on their side these days. Sort-of. She moved, graceful and fluid, and felt the air moving around her, totally under her control. It started as a gust and then became a gale, just a small one because they were inside; and she spun and pulled it all around her so she was in the eye of a gentle whirlwind.

She didn't stop moving but out of the corner of her eye she saw Ifrit pacing around, one hand extended and his brow furrowed over his glasses like he did when he was concentrating. It was an oddly serious look, for a kid who didn't look like someone had measured all his proportions right before he was made. Then he snapped his fingers to make fire and planted himself, using quick short motions to call heat and motion before thrusting his hand forward at an angle to the whirlwind.

Fire spurted out, not exactly a streamer but not just a fireball either, and it grazed the edge of the whirlwind. Valkyrie caught the heat and pulled it in, and her hair where it wasn't caught by her hairband spun in a curtain behind her, and just like that the fire was caught in her vortex. She laughed as she whirled hands outstretched as if to touch the inside of the whirlwind's eye; then Ifrit stepped back and lowered his hand and the fire cut off, and Valkyrie slowed her spin so the air and flames went up and bloomed outward against the ceiling where it couldn't hurt anybody.

Valkyrie turned grinning, and held out her hands. "Look — not even singed. How about you?"

Ifrit grinned back and waggled his fingers at her. "Nope."

"That was awesome," Kara cried out from the sidelines, and coughed, and pointed upward. "Mostly."

Valkyrie looked up at the smoke gathering on the ceiling and grimaced. "Oh, yeah."

She lifted her hand to use air and send it out through the open window, but it was already moving, and when she glanced around Skulduggery was in the doorway, his own hand extended. He shook his head when he saw her, as if in despair. "I knew it. Clearly, you've spent too long training under Rover. All flash and no economy."

"Shut up, you goon," Valkyrie said, but she was grinning, and Skulduggery came into the room properly, and came toward them. Ifrit stared, because he hadn't quite got over the habit of staring whenever Skulduggery was nearby. Kara and Natalie went back to discussing their own training, so Valkyrie took Ifrit's hand and dragged him over to meet Skulduggery halfway. "Any advice on Ifrit's streamers? They're not totally controlled yet."

"I hit the whirlwind the right way this time," Ifrit said.

"You did," Skulduggery said, tilting his head. "Actually, I'm impressed. There aren't many Elementals your age who can get even close to a streamer. It takes focus." Valkyrie half-expected him to go on with something more backhanded, but instead he tipped his hat at the room at large. "Please excuse me while I steal Valkyrie away for a few minutes."

"I already told them," Valkyrie said as they leave the room, Ifrit grinning hugely behind them. "What's wrong?"

"What makes you think something is wrong?"

"You complimented Ifrit and didn't say anything to put a pin in his big head after."

"I don't always puncture big heads after paying compliments," said Skulduggery with enough offence that Valkyrie wasn't sure if it was faked or not.

"No, but you usually do, unless there's something wrong," she insisted. He had a blithe way of reducing teenage arrogance. They all did, in their own ways, except Rover; he encouraged them to get all their excitement out and then made sure they were deflated.

"Maybe I just didn't think it was necessary in Ifrit's case," said Skulduggery, adjusting his hat, and Valkyrie eyeballed him doing that and said nothing. It was worse than he thought.

"Is Hopeless really letting Pandora come over here?" she asked instead.

"You say that as thought it wasn't his idea," Skulduggery told her, and shrugged his bony shoulders. "They'll be fine. I think he wanted her to meet Professor Grouse. I'd be very surprised if the good professor hadn't had something to do with the creation of the Tír's science development lab, in fact."

The morgue wasn't far and they reached it before Valkyrie could ask for more details about that. Kenspeckle was muttering inside with the corpse on the table, and Valkyrie went right up to look into the deceased's face. No one she recognised offhand. That was a relief. Kenspeckle didn't look like he'd cut the corpse open, either, which was a good thing as far as Valkyrie was concerned. She still got queasy at that part.

"Pleasant," Kenspeckle greeted Skulduggery shortly, and Skulduggery tipped his hat.

"Good afternoon, Professor. What have we got?"

"We've got me being treated like a common coroner," Kenspeckle snapped.

"Be fair, Kenspeckle," said Valkyrie with a grin and a pat of his hand. "You'll never be a common anything."

Kenspeckle grunted his approval of that, snapping on some gloves. "First things first," he said, "there's no injuries — no visible injuries."

"Heart attack?" Skulduggery asked as Guild came in through the door, briskly impatient the way he always came through doors, but he didn't interrupt; only came up to the table and looked down.

"I won't know until I've had a look inside him," said Kenspeckle, "but frankly I doubt it. I think it's more likely that he was killed by a warlock."

A shiver ran down Valkyrie's spine. "I thought they all died out. Like werewolves."

"They were supposed to have been," Skulduggery agreed. "How can you tell?"

"Ravel sent through the research I requested before that specialist arrives," Kenspeckle told them. "It looked very similar to some research I did back in the day on people murdered by warlocks, if more comprehensive." The last was a bit grudging.

"Don't warlocks eat souls?" Valkyrie demanded.

"Yes," said Guild, and he said it without a hint of snobbery, and that more than anything shut Valkyrie up. They all stood staring at the corpse for a few minutes, and Skulduggery adjusted his hat.

"The halfway house sent through some details, I hope?"

"On the table." Kenspeckle pointed irritably at a folder on the corner of the counter. Valkyrie was closer, and she craned her head to read before she'd even picked it up.

"His name's Paul Lynch. He was a Sensitive. Visions of all the ways the world is going to end, until they don't." She brightened a little, sorting through the pages. "Hey, Hopeless knows him. His signature's here."

"These days that doesn't mean much," said Skulduggery with amusement, and Valkyrie held the folder closer when Guild tried to take it, sidling away toward Skulduggery.

"It's a psychological profile," she told Skulduggery, glancing toward Guild. "You know, for that thing."

"... Ah." Skulduggery paused, and then nodded to Guild. "My apologies, Elder Guild, but we're going to need to keep this confidential for now."

Guild was definitely scowling. "Fine," he snapped, turning toward the door. "You tell Hopeless that if he expects me to start begging for information, he has another think coming."

"Hopeless very rarely expects people to do anything they won't, in actuality, do," Skulduggery told him, and added, "besides, he's got enough on his mind, thanks to you."

There was something extra sarcastic about those words, something lacking Skulduggery's usual warmth even when it came to people he didn't like. Valkyrie looked at him startled, and Guild threw him a furious look, and then left. Valkyrie bit back on demanding what that was all about, and waved at Kenspeckle as they left.

"So Lynch was authorised for the Tír," said Skulduggery.

"The halfway house was a go-between, wasn't it?"

"Yes, but most people who go to live on the Tír don't come back, especially people in Lynch's situation. The Tír is the only place in the world who could offer him the support he needed for his visions."

"Maybe he didn't want to," Valkyrie suggested, rifling through the files. There were some other doctor's signatures on some of the pages too, so Lynch had at least gone to therapy there.

"I suppose it's possible," said Skulduggery thoughtfully. "But the halfway house is full of people. Why kill him, and only him?" He nodded a little to himself. "I think we'd better go investigate the halfway house ourselves."

Valkyrie sighed. "I knew you'd say that."

"Had other plans, did you?"

"We were all going to Ghastly's after this," she explained, "to get everyone kitted out for the Requiem Ball."

Skulduggery paused. "I see." He nodded. "Valkyrie, I really must insist that you keep to your prior engagements. It's no good for a young sorcerer like yourself to start breaking promises this early."

"Goon," said Valkyrie, but she was grinning. "You'll tell me everything you find? You'll take someone with you?"

"I'll be heading back to the Sanctuary first," Skulduggery said, and took the folder from her. "I want to interview Hopeless or Erskine about this fellow before I see his room and things. It's interesting, isn't it?"

"Which part?"

"The part about a halfway house for the Tír," Skulduggery said thoughtfully. "I wonder how many people actually know about it and are in a prime position to send people their way. For one thing, Gordon was a rather influential fellow, and I doubt that book of names he bequeathed Erskine included only beautiful women."

"You think Hopeless and Erskine might be gearing up for something?"

"I don't know," said Skulduggery. "At the very least, I think someone else is gearing up to something. This wasn't an unplanned murder." He turned his skull toward her. "By the way, Pandora is due to arrive sometime the day after tomorrow, if you wanted to be here while she looks at Gail."

Valkyrie nodded. "Yeah, I do. Thanks."

They reach a junction where their paths split, and Valkyrie headed back to the training room while Skulduggery went to the loading bay, where the Bentley was waiting.


	6. Blissfully hopeless

Dexter hadn't done a lot that morning after talking to Hopeless and Moribund. This was the first time he'd come into the Sanctuary since becoming host to the Remnant, and he spent some time wandering around. It seemed odd. Alien. People rushing around everywhere, as they did, and in a weird way he felt like the only one of them that was really real. When he went into his office, his office, it looked like a place from a lifetime that wasn't his.

He spent some time staring down at the desk, empty only because someone had cleared off any of the papers that were needed for something else. He tried sitting down. It was one of those rolling chairs — Rover had insisted on it. It felt weird, and it took ten minutes of sitting and puzzling to realise it was because it was too low; and when Dexter opened his drawers he found some candy wrappers sitting in the back. Saracen or Rover had been using his desk.

Probably Saracen. Rover, as far as Dexter could recall, hadn't left him for more than a few minutes at a time.

That was when Dexter realised he hadn't texted Rover to say where he was, or left a note, so he checked his phone. Nothing alarmed had come into his inbox, but he sent a text saying 'with Hopeless' anyway, even though it was a few hours late.

Then the room for altogether too alien, too weird, and he got up and left to go to the Grand Mage's office instead.

When he got there Hopeless handed him a bunch of papers to deliver, so Dexter went away to do that; and for another couple of hours that was what he did. Just that. It was unexpectedly soothing, and Dexter had enough room to wonder if this was what Ghastly had felt like when he was working for Anton after he found out about Vile. Dexter hadn't gotten the same opportunity — Anton had been doing all his chores on his own. Since he figured Anton needed the focus, he hadn't tried too hard to help.

Maybe he should have. It felt good to have something to do again, and good to not have to think about it.

It felt less good to forget to eat, but Hopeless snagged him before he left again and they both sat down for a late lunch, right there in the Grand Mage's office. They talked. Dexter couldn't remember what they talked about, except that Hopeless talked a lot with his fingers to give his head a rest from the thoughtspeaker. It was nice and almost painfully domestic, and Dexter was just noticing that it was, and wondering whether this was all that was left for him, because if he had to keep doing things like this while feeling like there was a smog full of cotton between him and everything else —

He didn't know if he could stand that, long term.

But wasn't that what he'd been doing all this time?

Bliss came in before Dexter could get up the nerve to ask. By then he was leaning back in his chair, hands behind his head and staring up at the ceiling; and Hopeless was humming at his desk, doing things which involved the sharp scent of the pine glue he used to make his books. Probably he was, in fact, making one of his books. But he was humming, and that was soothing too.

It was all disturbed when Bliss entered, and Dexter stretched and let the legs of the chair thud to carpet, and Hopeless looked up. Bliss closed the door and pressed the privacy sigil, but he didn't ask Dexter to leave. And then he stood in front of the desk, examining Hopeless and saying nothing. Hopeless rested his chin on his hands and looked back.

The silence went on for some time before Dexter realised that at this point he would have said something, so he put up his hand. "Should I leave the room for you lovebirds?" Hopeless's mouth crinkled slightly and Bliss's cold eyes turned toward him, and Dexter shrugged. "Just asking."

"Have you made your decision?" Bliss asked Hopeless, and Hopeless shrugged.

'Have you made yours?' he signed back, and Bliss didn't answer right away.

"What decision?" Dexter asked, but only Hopeless looked his way, with a little grimace.

'I haven't told Guild about the Tír yet,' he answered with his fingers. 'Bliss thinks we should tell some more people.'

Something in Dexter's gut didn't exactly flip over, but it was close enough.

"It's a risk to keep it like it is," said Bliss.

"It's a risk to tell the wrong person," Dexter pointed out.

"Elder Kerias already knows."

Dexter frowned. It felt a bit fake. "How?"

"Satellite imagery," said Bliss, and turned back to Hopeless, waiting patiently until Hopeless scrubbed his face with a sigh.

"What's your decision about?" Dexter asked Bliss to give Hopeless a bit of extra time, and this time when Bliss looked at him it was slowly, as if he had to work to draw his gaze away from Hopeless.

"Whether or not to take action against it," he said, and before he'd even really thought about it Dexter was on his feet. He thought about trying to say something funny, and couldn't think of anything; he thought about something threatening, but it occurred that that was really not a good idea where Bliss was concerned. But he stood, and he was pretty sure he looked very serious about it, and maybe that would be enough to register his dislike for that idea. Hopeless put a hand on his arm and smiled at him, small but reassuring, and looked back at Bliss.

'We're not ready yet,' he signed to Bliss. 'For one thing, we can't do it without the governor's permission. I promised her I wouldn't do that again, after everything that happened with the Remnant.' Dexter's heart skipped a little beat, uncomfortably. 'For another, not everyone we'd want to tell who's in a position of power is ready to use the information.'

"Such as whom?"

'The Taoiseach, for one,' said Hopeless, and Bliss nodded. He'd heard about the Taoiseach. Of course he had. How could he not, after what happened at the Government Buildings? Part of Dexter was surprised magic was still even a secret.Then again, people were pretty good at explaining away things that didn't exist in their worldview. 'After what happened at the Government Buildings, he's in need of some stability in government before we tell him anything else. Even though what he knows now is a setup for what comes next.'

"Then you do have plans for past this," said Bliss.

Hopeless smiled wryly and nodded. 'I know that you see it as a dangerous thing, Bliss. Please. Give us some time.'

"It is a dangerous thing," said Bliss. If it had been Guild, the words would have been accusing and cut off the end of Hopeless's sentence, non-verbal or not. Since it was Bliss, it sounded more like a matter-of-fact remark. "The existence of Ravel's city could destroy the world as we know it."

'We know," answered Hopeless, 'but most things wind up destroyed in the end, if left as they are. The world of mortals is changing too fast to pretend that we can't change and stay as we are, Bliss. Innovation is the act of getting ahead of the changes, and riding the wave of it instead of being drowned by it.'

"I would like to know what you're doing to mitigate potential damage."

Hopeless nodded. 'That's fair. I think that's a conversation I'd like to have with you and Guild, and with Adaeze as well.'

Dexter raised his hand. "Question. Why haven't you told Guild?"

At that, Hopeless sighed and rubbed his head. 'Honestly, I keep forgetting. He keeps thinking about something else. I've been waiting for him to bring that to me first.'

"What thing?" Dexter asked, frowning. He seemed to recall Skulduggery mentioning something last time they talked, but Dexter hadn't really been paying attention. Hopeless just shook his head, and managed another small smile.

'I should probably be the better man. Pandora is going to visit the Hibernian to look at Gail later this week.'

"It doesn't seem prudent for Guild to be lacking information in that circumstance," said Bliss, and his gaze was thoughtful. The question 'so why are you withholding' went unspoken but audible even to Dexter, in how Hopeless winced.

Instead of an answer Hopeless signed, 'Please let Skulduggery in.'

Bliss gave him one last look and then nodded, and went to open the door before anyone had knocked, though Skulduggery's fist was raised. There was a pause, and then he looked past Bliss to Hopeless and said, "No one likes a show-off."

Hopeless laughed in his soft way, and Dexter managed to find a smile from somewhere. It wasn't much of a smile, and he had to pin it consciously to his face, but that was what Hopeless said would help, so God help him, Dexter was going to do it. Skulduggery sidled in past Bliss, and Bliss closed the door and activated the privacy sigil once more.

"Ominous," Skulduggery noted, and turned toward Hopeless, coming over to put a folder on his desk. "Reporting in about the murder at the halfway house. So to speak, since I really don't have a lot I feel like reporting just yet. However, my usual partner has abandoned me for Ghastly, and she insisted I take someone with. I'd almost think she thinks I'll hide something from her if someone else isn't there to see."

"Murder?" Dexter demanded, reaching for the folder. Hopeless let him take it.

Skulduggery's skull bobbed up and down. "Murder. At one of the Tír's halfway houses. Kenspeckle Grouse thinks he may have been killed by a warlock."

Dexter's hands stilled and he looked up, and there was emotion there, somewhere, except he wasn't sure what it was, exactly. Trying to keep track of them was already exhausting. "You think someone being killed by a warlock isn't enough to be reporting on?"

"It's unconfirmed," Skulduggery said delicately. "He could be wrong."

'Kenspeckle?' Hopeless signed, lifting an eyebrow pointedly. 'Wrong?'

"I said he could be. Everyone's wrong once in a while, Hopeless. Even you."

Hopeless widened his eyes innocently and Dexter looked back down at the folder.

"Guild said he was going to drop his daughter off at the Hibernian," Bliss noted. "Was he there?"

Skulduggery turned his head slightly, not enough to actually see Bliss behind him, and then nodded. "He was. He was very put out Valkyrie could look at those documents and he couldn't. Would you like some help breaking that deadlock, Descry?"

'Not particularly.' Hopeless rubbed his temples. 'Valkyrie's right about not going alone, though. Take Dexter. I think he's getting bored.'

"I wasn't getting bored," Dexter muttered, and looked up. "Was I?" Hopeless waggled his hand. "Oh, thanks a lot. Fat lot of help you are."

"Wonderful," Skulduggery said with the kind of cheer Dexter couldn't tell was real or not even before the Remnant. It was an eerie sort of cheer, if only because he'd started using it more often since he came back from the Faceless Ones' dimension, and not always at moments that were appropriate. Dexter privately felt that after dropping a warlock murder on them was pretty inappropriate. "Dexter, ready when you are."

"Hang on, I'm still reading."

"If there is nothing else, Grand Mage," said Bliss, as if he hadn't barged in of his own accord. Hopeless nodded and Bliss swept out, closing the door behind him.

"What did he want to talk about?" Skulduggery asked.

'Guild and the Tír,' Hopeless answered. Dexter tried to ignore their conversation in favour of reading the material Skulduggery handed to him.

Paul Lynch, Sensitive with a history of seeing the end of the world, tapped for urgent need in the Tír fifteen years ago, initial psych profile signed by Hopeless ... Dexter squinted down at the signature. "That's not your signature."

He looked up and Hopeless waited a beat until he was, and signed 'Yes, it is'.

"It doesn't look anything like 'Descry Hopeless'."

'I used the name that actually has the doctorate attached,' Hopeless replied, and even though he was speaking with his fingers there was something dry in his expression and the sharp punctuation.

Dexter looked down again, and squinted. It didn't look like 'Descry Hopeless' but he still can't tell what it's meant to be. "I think your writing's gotten more legible since Serpine cut off your fingers."

There was a pause he didn't notice for too many beats, and then Skulduggery cleared his throat. "You're handling this, I hope?" he asked Hopeless. "I ask only because I'd really prefer not to have to tell Rover his husband is possessed again."

'I've got it covered.'

Slowly Dexter's previous words dawned on him, and there might have been a flip, or a quiver, or something that wanted to be emotion but wasn't. He grimaced anyway, and pushed the folder back. "Sorry."

Hopeless only smiled at him, his gentlest understanding smile, and reached out to squeeze his hand before answering. 'It's signed Maenach Thaddeus. You'll find my name on a lot of profiles in that halfway house.'

"Why did he come back?"

Hopeless shrugged. 'I haven't seen him in years. He has another therapist on the Tír now. It's possible he asked for dispensation, but he didn't have any family when we found him, so I can't off the top of my head say why he would.'

"The halfway house, then," said Skulduggery, and turned toward Dexter expectantly. Dexter threw up his hands and got up, collecting his jacket from the back of the chair.

"Alright, I'm going. What's Valkyrie doing at Ghastly's, anyway?"

"Having some outfits tailored for her friends," said Skulduggery, and they left together with Hopeless waving with a waggle of his fingers after them.


	7. The wisdom of Valkyrie Cain

When training was over they all found the showers to cool off and dry off. They were, technically speaking, the kind of showers hospitals had for decontamination, but they worked perfectly well as ordinary showers too, and Kenspeckle in the past year had thrown up his hands and let them install some lockers nearby so they could use them without worrying about having to cart extra clothes to school. Then they all went downstairs to the loading bay to pile into Farley's van. It was a cheap dinky thing, a lot like Ghastly's van mostly because Valkyrie had asked Ghastly for advice on what kind of car would be good for carting around magical medical equipment. Kenspeckle didn't like leaving the Hibernian, but that didn't mean Farley was limited to that. It expanded Kenspeckle’s business, too, which meant he’d grudgingly helped Farley cover the cost.

There wasn't much in the back right now except some standard emergency stuff, and a pull-out gurney like they had in the backs of ambulances. Ifrit flopped down on that while the rest of them sat in seats, except Missy who sat up front.

"Do you think you can ask him?" Kara was asking Valkyrie anxiously as they pulled out.

"Of course I can ask him," Valkyrie repeated mostly with patience, because Kara had asked that three times now. "The worst he can say is 'not now'. But I don't think he will."

The other Dead Men were getting worried about Dexter. Valkyrie was pretty sure they were ready to start dragging him out of the Hotel. Valkyrie hadn't seen him in days, and the lancing loneliness and worry had been unexpected when she first realised she probably wasn't going to see him regularly for a little while. He'd been hurt bad by what the Remnant had done to try and keep itself inside him.

"I don't think you're too far off, anyway," she added, because Kara looked a bit unconvinced. "All that glowy stuff looks about right."

"Have you ever seen another energy-thrower using their magic?" Farley threw back over his shoulder, through the window separating the cab.

"No," Valkyrie admitted, making a face at him and hoping he saw it in the mirror.

"It feels so hot," Kara said. "I can't tell if I'm doing it right or if I keep pulling back too soon."

Valkyrie thought about Dexter's hand, and the glove, and the fact that he could pick up and use a pen if it had a thick enough shaft to grip, and didn't smile. "If you're feeling the heat, don't push it. You read those books, right?"

"One," said Kara, "but I couldn't find the others, and it was really hard to read. I don't think I even understand most of it."

"I'll see if Hopeless has the others," Valkyrie promised. "Maybe the Cliff's notes."

Natalie shook her head, sitting sideways to stretch out her legs and rotate her ankles. "If my parents heard you talking about the Grand Mage like that they'd have conniptions."

"That sounds like a personal problem."

Ifrit put up his hand. "It's weird," he announced. "It's really weird."

"You've been trained by Rover and Skulduggery, and you think it's weird that I call the Grand Mage by his name?" Valkyrie demanded, laughing.

"Yep." Ifrit nodded solemnly. "The weirdest."

"No, that's Larrikin …"

After that the conversation turned back to their training and what Skulduggery had said about being taught by Rover too much. A lot of the gestures they were using were showy, too showy for most Elementals, but Rover had stood by them and they were working. Kara's case was a bit more difficult, because Dexter's vague suggestions had involved reading books from the first and second centuries, and Kara spent some time rambling at them until she realised she was going in circles and stopped. Valkyrie had taken one look at the one Kara managed to find and said "Better you than me". Mostly, she was impressed by Kara's determination, given when they'd met Kara hadn't had the first clue.

She wished Dexter could be there for real. She wished he could be there to show Kara how not to burn off her hands by accident, to be big brotherly gentle and patient, and laughing easily the way he hadn't since the Remnant, and wisecracking with the others. She still remembered the night when Crux broke into her house, and he hugged her and tucked her in, and it made her feel like everything was going to be okay. Valkyrie didn't have older siblings. She hadn't realised how much she'd gotten used to Dexter being there, until he couldn't be, and part of her was afraid that even if he came back, it wouldn't be the same. He'd been taken by the Remnant. What if there was no coming back from that?

They pulled up somewhere on Ghastly's street and got out of the van, and Valkyrie took Missy's hand. The shop was only a hundred yards away, but Erskine had once said this street had people pissing on the corner of it, and he wasn't totally wrong. It wasn't a good street. Especially not a good street for Guild's daughter to be wandering down it.

Ifrit went ahead, Natalie and Kara ambling behind and comparing notes on magical energy-use, and Farley took Missy's other hand, letting her skip between them with a hum. When they got to the door Ifrit was loitering by it, looking sheepish, and Valkyrie laughed.

"He's not going to bite you if you go in before me, you know," she said, pushing the door open.

"Yeah, well," Ifrit muttered. Seeing the living skeleton with decent regularity hadn't taken the edge off Dead Men, apparently.

"Hey, we're here," Valkyrie called into the shop, and voices inside cut off and Rover appeared around the corner, beaming.

"There you are! I was starting to think you'd gotten kidnapped by the Wicked Witch of the West!"

Valkyrie let go of Missy's hand just fast enough to get hugged and twirled, and she grinned as Rover put her down. His eyes were red. She pretended not to notice. "Not us. We're too wily. Did you bring ice-cream?"

"Did I ever," said Rover, and waved cheerily at the others as Natalie pulled the door closed behind her. "None for you! You all need to fit into your clothes!"

"Hey," Ifrit protested, but Rover had already shot back into the shop and Ghastly came out, smiling. Anything Ifrit might have been about to say got lost. None of Valkyrie's friends had met Ghastly yet, so she introduced each of them and Ghastly went around shaking their hands and nodding to each of them, and ignoring the stares. Everybody stared. Valkyrie had stared. Missy huddled closer to Farley's side, eyes wide.

"So that's six new outfits then," said Ghastly, looking over them all. "Are we after dresses for the ladies, suits for the men?"

"Not for me," said Valkyrie, shouldering past him and going into the shop, peeling off her jacket to flop into one of the armchairs. She held out her hands, sketching in the air. "I want a suit."

"You what," said Rover from the kitchen doorway, looking scandalised. "You want a suit? Why would you want a suit? Have I taught you nothing? Have I failed in keeping you away from the evil skeleton's clutches?"

"Most of us wear suits, Rover," Ghastly reminded him with exasperation, the sort that said he'd been dealing tolerantly with Rover's moods all afternoon.

"Yes, that's the point! She's going to blend in! She's going to fade into the background! The last time we had someone in a pretty dress on our team was when Dex and I got married!"

A choking noise from the entrance made Valkyrie grin. Ifrit's face was nearly red. Natalie raised a hand. "I've got to know."

"Dex," said Rover promptly before she had to ask, and his grin widened when Ifrit choked again.

"He did look good in that dress," Ghastly said thoughtfully, "and I'd been working from war-time resources, too."

"Then it's not like you've needed a woman in order to have a pretty dress on the team, have you?" Valkyrie said to Rover, and sat up to sketch in the air again, imagining. "I want a suit. But not, like, a man's suit. I don't want a suit you can transpose onto any old guy. I want a suit for a woman. But not a pantsuit. Not a business woman's suit. I want a classy suit. I want a suit for me."

"I'm sure I can come up with something," Ghastly told her, amused, and turned to the others. "And the rest of you?"

"Dress," said Natalie promptly, but Kara looked thoughtful, in a pained kind of way, looking at Valkyrie.

"I didn't think of a suit," she murmured. "Maybe I should go for a suit too ..."

Natalie and Valkyrie exchanged exasperated looks. "Dress," they said together. "She wants a dress."

"How do you know?" Kara demanded.

"You kept talking about a dress," Valkyrie said with a shrug. "What, do you think this is the only time you'll get something made by Ghastly? No way. You're my friend. You know Rover and Skulduggery. I'm slowly but surely getting you all adopted by the Dead Men. This is not the only time you'll get something made by Ghastly."

Kara made a strangled noise and Valkyrie smiled at her beatifically while Rover laughed, and levered herself up out of the armchair. "Come in and sit down, already. You're all making me nervous, hovering by the door. Hey, Missy." Valkyrie beckoned until Missy came out from behind Farley, shyly crossing the floor while casting glances over toward Ghastly. Valkyrie pointed at the armchair. It was the blue velvet armchair Dexter had made for her four years ago, when she first found out about magic and they came to Ghastly's shop to ask him to open his family vault. "Dexter made this armchair specially for me. Wanna sit down in it?"

Missy's face lit up. "Yes!"

Farley then had to come in with her, pushing Ifrit ahead of him, and Valkyrie used the cover of the chair to sign to the Dead Men. Rover signed back with one hand and then half-sprawled on the back of another armchair, chin in his hands.

"So what kind of dress?" he asked Natalie. "You were really definite. I like a young lady who knows what she wants."

"I was thinking red," said Natalie, and Ghastly raised his hands.

"I'm going to go get some tea while we discuss this," he said.

"I'll help," Valkyrie said promptly while Missy settled herself, grinning, in the plush armchair. "Make yourself comfortable."

"Aren't I meant to be the one allowed to say that?" Ghastly asked as she joined him in the kitchen doorway, but his mouth was twitching and Valkyrie grinned.

"What's yours is mine — or that's how Rover tells me it goes, anyway."

"Rover is a petty scoundrel," Ghastly grumbled, and then they were in the kitchen and away from the conversation. They couldn't close the door without it looking weird, but as long as they talked quietly and kept out of sight-line they should be fine. Ghastly went to the kettle and Valkyrie went to his cupboards to start pulling out tea-things. He asked, "What do you need?"

"Two things," she said, getting down a tray first and then turning. "One, how is Dexter really? Rover's faking, and he's been crying."

Ghastly glanced toward the other room, rubbing a hand over his head and mouth turned down. "I don't want to say he's not good," he said, "because he's not bad. He's —"

"Different." Valkyrie's heart sank, and Ghastly nodded.

"Hopeless says it's manageable. Maybe even fixable."

"So he's doing something?"

"He says Dexter's been stable and he was hoping it would wear off on its own, but since it hasn't he's going to get involved, yes. He introduced Dexter to someone this morning. Mostly he says we should all act normally, and be prepared if Dexter answers or reacts in a way that he wouldn't have, and not act like he kicked a puppy. Unless he actually kicked a puppy, in which case we should call him out like we would anyone else. But Hopeless didn't think that was likely."

"So just like Anton, then."

Ghastly shrugged and Valkyrie turned back to getting out the cups and saucers, trying not to feel like a balloon had been burst inside of her. It wasn't fair, she thought angrily, blinking away the burn in her eyes. It wasn't fair that the Dead Men should try so hard and help everyone so much, and wind up in these sorts of situations. It wasn't fair that Dexter would get Remnanted and come away still acting as if he didn't care.

"Hopeless really does think Dexter will be fine, Valkyrie," Ghastly said quietly when she brought over the tray with the teapot on it so he could pour. "His problem's the opposite of Anton's. Anton's feeling too much. Dexter's feeling too little. But the solution to both is to act like everything's normal."

"That won't help Dexter feel things properly, will it," Valkyrie snapped, and regretted it when she saw Ghastly's flinch. She took a deep breath and let it out, and waited til he was finished pouring the water before picking up one of his arms so she could wriggle in and reach up to put her arms around his neck. He hugged her back, very carefully. Ghastly always hugged people very carefully. "It just sucks," she said muffled into his shoulder.

"It does," Ghastly agreed, and she could hear him smiling a little. "It really, really does."

"What else did Hopeless say?"

"That Dexter will get in the habit of acting normally the more we act like he's acting normally. Hopeless couldn't say if he'd start to feel things properly, but as long as he's acting like it, it probably won't matter in the end. He won't even have to think about it, after a while."

"Fake it til you make it?"

"Pretty much."

"Is it just me or does a lot of psychology involve acting how you want things to be, and they'll come true?"

"Seems like it to me."

Valkyrie pulled back and wiped her eyes, and Ghastly smiled at her gently with a squeeze of her shoulder, and even though his scars made the expression twisted, in his eyes it was a lot like Hopeless's smile. Or maybe Hopeless's smile was like Ghastly's. Valkyrie honestly wasn't sure. She ignored that his eyes seemed to be wet too. He asked, "Okay?"

"Will be," Valkyrie said with determination. If acting like it made it true, then she would act like everything was fine. She was pretty sure there were limits to that kind of thinking, but that was what Hopeless was for.

"What was the other thing?"

"Skulduggery was all snippy at Guild while we were at the Hibernian," she said. "I wanted to know what that was about."

To her surprise Ghastly sighed and pulled back to reach for the tea leaves and set them steeping. "That's partly my fault."

"Your fault?"

"I might have been conspiring with Guild about something."

Valkyrie stared. Ghastly. Conspiring. With Guild? "About what?"

"Guild was very affected by Hopeless becoming Tesseract just before the Remnants' siege last year," said Ghastly, not looking at her. "He feels that if our enemies know about Hopeless's magic, then there's no reason our allies shouldn't either. He wants us to convince Hopeless to tell some of the other Sanctuaries he's a mind-reader."

Valkyrie's stomach dropped and then flipped over unpleasantly, and she leaned back against the counter to support her suddenly shaky limbs. "He wants to tell people about Hopeless's secret?"

Ghastly nodded, and his smile was twisted not just because of his scars. "That's about how I reacted. But the more he talked the more he seemed to make sense. And as strange as it seems, I don't think he's going to tell people on his own."

"What did he say?"

"He said," answered Ghastly slowly, thoughtfully, "that Hopeless's magic is a weapon, and if it came out in a way not under our control, then it was going to blow up in our faces. If we choose when and how it comes out, then we can be prepared."

Those words rang a bell. Not the same words — but close enough. "That's what Erskine said about magic and the Tír."

Ghastly nodded. "That's what I was thinking too. I've gone to the Tír a few times in the past few months. I wanted to know some of those kinds of things. I told Skulduggery about it, because — well, I needed someone to talk to. And I've talked to Tanith, but she doesn't have the same perspective. Saracen wasn't happy about the idea. I think he's still turning it over. We haven't told Rover or Dexter or Anton. Or Erskine."

"Erskine's not going to like it," said Valkyrie, remembering the way Erskine had reacted when Hopeless was captured. He didn't like anything that threatened the Dead Men. He especially didn't like it when it was Hopeless. After Dex and Rover, it was making Valkyrie start to wonder.

"I know. That's part of the problem. Guild thinks we're moving too slowly."

"But he's not going to tell anyone himself?"

Ghastly shook his head. "He said that Hopeless is the sum of the Dead Men. He's not going to do anything that we wouldn't agree with — he needs us too much. And Guild's not wrong. We've all sacrificed too much keeping his secret to make the choice without everyone weighing in. Hopeless would never consider it, if it wasn't a group decision. I don't know if he'd be able to go through with it, if he had to make the choice himself."

"But he knows that Guild's thinking about it," Valkyrie said slowly. Ghastly didn't bother answering that. Of course Hopeless knew. He always knew. That's what Skulduggery meant by having enough on his mind. "Has he said anything about it?"

"No," admitted Ghastly, "and he probably won't, until we come to a consensus. Guild's not wrong."

That was the second time he'd said that, and it sounded as weird as it had the first time. It sounded weirder when Valkyrie thought about it more, and agreed. With Guild. It shouldn't be so much a surprise at this point, but it was. "He's not just not wrong," said Valkyrie, "he's right."

"You've been talking to Hopeless too much," said Ghastly, but he was smiling, and Valkyrie managed to smile back.

"Hey, I'm still in therapy for the massacre of my family, you know?" They'd sent invites for the christening to the rest of the surviving family who didn't know about magic. The ones that had replied had declined. Valkyrie couldn't blame them, given what happened last time family got together. She was pretty sure one of the kids who'd survived and lost their parents had wound up adopted by someone else. They didn't know who. "He's right," Valkyrie went on. "Hopeless does need you. And Guild might be right that you all need to make the decision faster than you have been. I mean, how many of our enemies know now? Serpine knew. The Baron knew. You know who —" She stopped and made a face while Ghastly laughed. "Okay, let's not go there. Mevolent knows. Stopping your allies from knowing just makes you weaker."

"That's the problem, I think," Ghastly admitted. "There's allies and there's allies. Hopeless's magic is —" He shook his head. "It's a Dead Men thing. It's not an Ireland thing."

"You're wrong," Valkyrie said. "It's been an Ireland thing since he became an Elder. I think that's why Bane was so angry that one time." And why he's been avoiding coming into the Sanctuary now. "You guys don't think about yourselves as Ireland, but you are. I mean, the only reason you had a chance in the war was because of Hopeless. If he wants to test-drive telling someone, I've got four people next-door he can try it out on."

"You think he should tell your friends?" Ghastly asked, startled and frowning.

"Mevolent's back," Valkyrie said simply, "and he's coming after the people who fought him before. If the veterans fall, who d'you think will be fighting him next?" Ghastly looked at her for a minute without saying anything, and there was something in his eyes, something Valkyrie thought might have been regret. But he didn't seem about to say anything, so she went on. "I got over it better than older sorcerers will. So will they. Us young folk — we're good at getting over things like that. And if the older sorcerers don't want to get over it, who do you think will make them?"

"Most people in power are older sorcerers," said Ghastly.

"Not forever they won't be. But we'll make them look bad, just by existing and being okay with it." She shrugged. "And everyone on the Tír knows it too. That'll make them look even worse. But mostly, I think ..." She stopped, frowning, and Ghastly turned to the teapot to take out the leaves and tap the strainer until it stopped dripping. "Sometimes," she said finally, "sometimes I wonder how life would be if my parents didn't know about magic. And I think — I think I would pretend I liked it that way, but I'd be wrong. Because, see, they wouldn't get to be my parents, if they didn't know. Just like Ireland's allies can't be Ireland's allies while Ireland is holding them at arm's length. Like Guild said, it's not practical, but even more than that, it's wrong. After a certain point, it's just wrong."

Ghastly said nothing, but he was still tapping the strainer even though it wasn't dripping. "Ghastly?" He stopped, taking a deep breath, and Valkyrie was startled to see his eyes were wet as he set the strainer in the sink. "Sorry," she said quickly, in case that was her fault — it had to be her fault, because she'd been rambling on like an idiot. "Sorry. You can — you know, ignore that. I know I'm not as experienced as all of you, and all ..."

"No," Ghastly interrupted, and when he turned to her his eyes were wet and he was smiling, and this time he was the one who hugged her first, still all careful but tight, and resting his head on hers. "Thank you. I think I needed to hear that. I just didn't expect to."

"You'd think you all think I'm still twelve years old," Valkyrie grumbled, and Ghastly laughed, and then something smashed in the other room and Rover's sheepish voice drifted in through the open door. As one Valkyrie and Ghastly sighed and pulled apart, and Ghastly picked up the tray while Valkyrie picked up the plate of cupcakes sitting on the counter on one of Anton's cake trays, and they both went to rein in Larrikin.


	8. The pre-emptive strike

Dexter left his motorcycle at the Sanctuary. He didn't remember this until after he'd already got in the Bentley and they were four blocks away, and then spent ten minutes wrestling with whether or not he really cared while they were stuck in traffic. Mostly, he kept going back to what he'd said to Hopeless. He almost couldn't believe he said it.

"Did you ever have a problem with not caring?" he asked suddenly, without quite meaning to. Skulduggery inclined his head the way he did when he was listening but debating answering, his fingers drumming cheerily on the steering-wheel. "With — you know."

There was such a long silence then that Dexter didn't think he was going to get an answer, so he sat back in his seat and looked out the window. They weren't moving much, in the traffic of everyone eager to get home meeting with the tail end of the traffic for the big game.

"Yes," said Skulduggery eventually, and Dexter looked over to find that Skulduggery wasn't looking back. Instead he was gazing straight forward, with his skull a bit loose on his spine so it sat slightly tilted, the way he did when he was staring into the distance instead of at what was right in front of him. "It's hard to remember sometimes because the anger overtook everything else. But I do remember not caring. I remember looking at you all and the way you bantered, and thinking it was stupid and meaningless, and as though I was the only sane one in the world. I remember wondering what we were fighting for, if people could be hurt and murdered the way my family had been. If death could, for any reason, decide not to take."

Dexter didn't say anything. He didn't have anything to say. Skulduggery had never talked about his feelings from back then. Dexter had never thought he would.

The car in front moved and they inched forward, and then settled again. Skulduggery adjusted his hat, and continued, and Dexter wasn't sure if it was by choice or because he'd already begun.

"I tried not to let on, of course, but I knew I wasn't fooling people. That almost felt worse. It seemed as though everyone expected me to be all right, when I wasn't, and instead of pointing it out, they ignored it." He was quiet for a moment, drumming his fingers, and then he nodded slightly. "They didn't, of course. I seem to recall some of you asking if I was all right. I remember Ghastly being one of them. Oddly, that also made it worse. As if drawing attention to the weight meant I would be crushed by it."

He fell silent then and Dexter waited for him to start again, but he didn't. He'd been asking for — he didn't know what. To see how Skulduggery handled it, so Dexter knew what not to do, since the whole 'became a supervillain' thing wouldn't look good on Dexter's resume. He hadn't expected to receive a verbalisation of a black hole.

"I don't think that's where I'm at," he said finally, looking forward. Maybe that was something to work with. "I'm not angry. It feels more like everything is wrapped in bubble-wrap. It's hard to pick up, even if I wanted to. And I feel like I have no energy, most days." Skulduggery said nothing. Dexter went on. "Hopeless introduced me to Moribund."

"Ah, yes," Skulduggery murmured. "The Remnant expert. I wondered what, precisely, made him an expert."

"He is one," said Dexter, and then wondered if he should have. Skulduggery twitched a little, but not in surprise. Not all in surprise. More as if he'd got the answer to a riddle he'd been unteasing, and hadn't expected it.

"Ah," he said.

"Hopeless said he's just like any other psychopath. That even Remnants can learn to love, or get in the habit of faking it so well that it doesn't matter."

Finally Skulduggery turned his skull toward Dexter, slowly as if contemplating. This time Dexter wasn't looking over. "Is that what Hopeless said you should do?"

Dexter looked straight ahead and nodded. "Yeah. He said I had an advantage. I'm not a Remnant. If I keep consciously acting like I did, like I want to, it might fix itself. And if it doesn't, then it won't matter, because I'll be acting the way I want anyway."

For a long time Skulduggery said nothing. The car in front moved. They crept forward. Surely even for this time of day, on the day of a big game, this was bad? Surely it wasn't usually so terrible? It was possible Dexter had spent too much time using the motorcycle lately and had stopped noticing the traffic. Then again, he hadn't been into Dublin in a while.

"He's right," said Skulduggery finally, adjusting his hat ever so slightly. "For what it's worth. Well, in my case he's slightly wrong. My anger never goes away. Not really. But then again, I'm addicted to necromancy and you're not. But the acting the way you want — yes. That's true. It gets easier. Only a little easier, sometimes." That was a bit quieter than the rest — reflective. Dexter knew he was talking about the day in the Government Buildings when he'd come face-to-face with Vile. "But easier. And it's easier now than it ever was. Now that everyone knows what I did. I wasn't expecting that."

"You said you weren't afraid anymore."

"I'm not," Skulduggery said, turning to look at him again, and for a moment they traded glances. "Not anymore. I didn't expect that either." The car in front moved. Skulduggery looked away to move too. "Sometimes that seems frightening on its own. If I'm not afraid, then what's to stop me from falling again?"

"We are," Dexter said without thinking, and that felt good. Weird, which was weird compounded, but good. "Like Ghastly did."

"Right." Skulduggery nodded. "So what's to stop you from not caring ever again?"

Dexter sat back and gazed up at the skyline in the distance, and didn't answer. He didn't have to. They both knew the answer. If Skulduggery could remember how to laugh, how to grieve, how to hope, after being Vile, Dexter could damn well remember how to care. And care properly, not what he'd been doing lately. He didn't think Larrikin objected to the sex, but Dexter had been not having sex with him for two centuries. He could remember how to be caring without that. He'd done it before.

"Oh dear," said Skulduggery, and Dexter focussed properly on the road, and suddenly the reason for the traffic became clear. They crept closer and wordlessly they watched the fire-engine on the corner, smoke no longer billowing from the building there. It probably hadn't for a while, because Dexter didn't remember seeing it from a distance, and Skulduggery hadn't mentioned it. But there were definitely fire trucks, and the building was no longer a complete building, and everything was wet and cordoned off.

"That's the halfway house, isn't it," said Dexter, not even expecting a response.

"Yes."

Of course it was. Dexter watched as they passed, and only remembered to look for details after they had; but the alley and part of the street had enough space that Skulduggery pulled up out of the traffic, parking half on the curb, and they got out.

One of the garda was already coming toward them, holding out her hand. "I'm sorry, sirs, this is a restricted area."

Skulduggery showed her an ID on the inside flap of his wallet. "Detective Inspector Me. I need to see this crime-scene."

She looked at them, at Skulduggery's suit and hat and the total lack of a garda uniform, and then at Dexter's T-shirt and jeans and the fact that the former did not totally hide his biceps. She held out her hand and Skulduggery wordlessly passed the ID into her hands.

'Is that a good idea?' Dexter signed.

'Perfectly,' Skulduggery signed back. 'Hopeless asked Fionn to leverage his authority to give me identification the garda would, in fact, recognise.'

Dexter stared for a moment, and when he answered his gestures were punctuated with deliberate but sarcastic sharpness. 'Why didn't anybody tell me this? I feel left out. I feel maligned. Why don't I rate a real detective's shield?'

"Thank you, sir," said the garda, handing back Skulduggery's wallet, and Dexter scowled. "Come this way."

They ducked under the tape and the garda took them to the man in charge. "Detective Inspector Marmot, this is Detective Inspector Me."

"Ah," said Skulduggery as Marmot started, turned, and double-took at Skulduggery. And then stared. Skulduggery inclined his head and held out his hand. "Detective Inspector Marmot, what a surprise. Should congratulations be in order? You got promoted."

"Yes," said Marmot, still staring. He looked a bit pale, in fact, and then shook his head hard and reached out to shake Skulduggery's hand in return.

"Does the ASU handle arson now?" Skulduggery asked, almost cheerfully.

"Transferred to the regular detective's unit," said Marmot in the fashion of someone whose brain wasn't quite connected to their mouth. He was, Dexter noted, still staring at Skulduggery. "Need some — needed a, um ..."

Skulduggery turned to Dexter to explain helpfully, "Detective Inspector Phil Marmot was leading the ASU forces at the Government Buildings last year. He acquitted himself quite well under the circumstances, I thought."

That means he probably saw magic, Dexter translates. He'd heard a lot of people saw magic. Dexter glanced at Marmot, still staring at Skulduggery. Probably some of them saw more than others. Dex nodded. "Nice to meet you, Detective."

"Er, thanks," said Marmot, and then shook his head hard. "Why are you here? It's arson."

"Well, yes," said Skulduggery. "It was arson of one of our buildings."

Marmot may have gone a little bit greyer. "There was a halfway house here. That was — I mean. It was for ..."

"Well, it was run by our people, yes. Were there any survivors?"

Marmot stares a little more, this time significantly more frazzled, like a man whose script had been replaced by the Kama Sutra. Then he took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "One or two. Over here."

He took them away from where the Bentley was parked, to where cars and ambulance and the fire-truck made a half-circle, blocking off at least one of the street's lanes. There were victims seated on gurneys and sideways on the backseat of the cars. Not enough to account for everyone who could have been in a building that size — but some. One of them looked up and launched herself to her feet, and staggered. Dexter lunged but he was too far away, and one of the paramedics got there first, lowering her carefully. She went green.

"This is Detective Inspector —" Marmot started, and glanced sidelong at Skulduggery. "Which. Which name should I be using?"

"I know who they are," said the woman. "Dexter Vex and Skulduggery Pleasant. I'm Miranda Duchnaj. You couldn't get here any faster?"

"Unfortunately, no," said Skulduggery, his voice unexpectedly gentle. Dexter couldn't help but stare. Skulduggery ignored him. "I've been told you found Paul Lynch at about two-thirty in the afternoon, is that correct?"

"His room-mate found him," she said bitterly. "He was in his room when the fire started. I'm pretty sure it started in that room."

"Why don't you tell us what happened," Skulduggery suggested, and she scowled.

"I am bloody well telling you what happened!" Then she went green again and pressed a hand to her head, and listed to the side. This time Dexter caught her, straightening her up and sitting down next to her so she could lean on him if she had to. She took a deep breath. "His room-mate found him. He looked like he was asleep at first, but then the look of pure agony tipped him off, so he came downstairs shouting about it. I got everyone in their rooms for head-counts, locked down the building, called in and downloaded the video. The —" She glanced toward Marmot. "The ... ambulance picked up Paul's body from the loading bay to take him to the — coroner."

"The professor won't like being called that," Skulduggery muttered, and when Duchnaj stopped to give him a glare he held up a hand. "Please continue."

"Video was still downloading, so I gave them Paul's file," she said. "I couldn't see any broken windows or signs of breaking in, and I didn't remember seeing any strangers, but I wasn't on desk earlier in the day. Then the next thing I know someone comes downstairs shouting about a fire. We started an evacuation but something exploded upstairs."

Dexter glanced up at the building. Its top floors were gone, and they didn't look just as if they'd been burned. He was pretty familiar with what explosions looked like.

"After that I was just trying to get out," said Duchnaj.

"You didn't see anything suspicious around the time of the fire?" Skulduggery asked. "Were you at the desk by then?"

Duchnaj nodded. "But we don't exactly lock and bar our windows, if you know what I mean."

"No," said Marmot. "What do you mean? Someone would have been noticed climbing in, wouldn't they?"

"That depends on their ... skillset," said Skulduggery delicately. "Did the video finish downloading, by any chance?"

Duchnaj pointed at a bundle of a singed jacket and some other stuff. "USB should be in the pocket. I don't know how good condition it's in, it got pretty hot."

"Excellent." Skulduggery went rifling through that.

"Are you going to be okay?" Dexter asked. "Do you all have someplace to go? I can call Erskine. Or Hopeless. He's probably begging for a chance to put off his paperwork." He'd stayed silent mostly to think about what he would normally say, and in this case it turned out to be the hilarious thing, because Duchnaj's face froze in the manner of someone who hadn't really realised who they were speaking to and what it meant.

"Can you — just do that? I mean ..." She shook her head. "I'm being stupid. I've met the prince before anyway —"

"Prince?" said the paramedic before she could stop herself, startled, and then held up her hands and turned away. "I'm not listening. Excuse me."

"You have?" Dexter asked encouragingly. She nodded.

"Yeah, he comes by every now and then, to see how things go."

"Did he come to see Paul at all?"

"No," said Duchnaj with a frown. "And actually, that was weird. Paul passed through this halfway house a while ago. People who come through here don't usually want to come back — by the time they'd moved out, they've been moved to a far better place."

"Did he say why?" Dexter asked before Skulduggery could, but Skulduggery had paused to listen, still hunched over Duchnaj's things.

"Yeah." Her eyes darted toward Marmot.

"He knows," said Dexter, and Duchnaj nodded and took a breath.

"It's about time we had some people in the garda, honestly. They've been a pain in the ass to work around. Paul was having visions of the end of the world."

"I'm given to understand that's not unusual," Skulduggery noted over the sound of Marmot making choking noises.

"Yeah, but these were different. This time around, he said he saw Dublin vanishing in a plume of a nuclear explosion."

There was a very long silence. Dexter looked at Skulduggery. Skulduggery looked back, and adjusted his hat. "Well," he said finally, "that's unsettling. Paul frequently had visions of the end of the world, though, didn't he?"

"Yes," said Duchnaj. "Usually in order. They'd stop when the period passed."

"Interesting," Dexter muttered. "Most powerful Sensitives like him see things that will come true someway, somehow. He sees ... probabilities. There's a sorcerer like that who works special ops in the Tír." Something about Marmot's face froze.

"Is there?" Skulduggery asked.

"Yeah, I met him a couple of years ago. He helped me figured out which warehouses to raid when we were looking for Batu. I think his name was Vetinari."

"I think I've heard that name before," said Skulduggery thoughtfully, and Dexter forced a laugh.

"Probably — they're from a book series. The character was really, really good at playing the odds, let me put it that way."

"How good?"

"He was a benevolent dictator of a city who'd stopped even trying to have him assassinated."

"Sounds fascinating," said Skulduggery, "and possibly a smidge terrifying about this other fellow's taste in heroes, and I believe I remember where I heard the name before. Corrival was working with him last year, to handle Stray."

... Oh. Dexter's face froze a little, and it felt like a glitch, and nothing else, because he was already talking. "Well, it sounds like Paul's Sensitivity worked like that. He'd see the odds of an apocalypse happening, not the certainty of it."

"That's a relief," Marmot mumbled, and motioned weakly at the stretched. "I don't suppose — can I —?"

Dexter hopped up and he sat down, very heavily, with Duchnaj scooting aside and frowning. "I thought you said he knew."

"He's new to the knowing," said Skulduggery delicately, and turned to Dexter. "The thing that's fascinating me about this —"

"Is that he was seeing nuclear armageddon before he was seeing other potential apocalypses?"

"Precisely," said Skulduggery. "And a nuclear warhead means mortal governments, which means that we may need to talk to Erskine, and Corrival, and possibly Governor Chiabuoto." He turned to Duchnaj. "I don't suppose he told you more about his visions?"

Duchnaj shook her head. "Not really."

"Nothing at all?" Skulduggery persisted. "Any particular turns of phrase, or metaphors he might have used? Metaphors can be important to visions like these, even when they seem obvious."

She shrugged. "Not to me, but if he came here it's because he had dispensation, and he would have had to go to his regular therapist for that. They would have kept notes. You should be able to find them easily through the precinct."

"Excellent," said Skulduggery, and reached out awkwardly to pat her shoulder. Dexter watched him and realised he was smiling, and the moment he had it slid off his face; but it was there. He couldn't tell if Skulduggery was trying to lead by example or not, but it was hilarious. In a bubble-wrap kind of way. "Get better soon."

"You're not very good at this, are you?"

"Not really, no," Skulduggery admitted. "Anything else?"

"Just one," said Duchnaj. "Paul was meeting with a guy a few times. I think he was a reporter, and Paul was supposed to meet him today. He didn't show up.“


	9. Home sweet home

"Honey, I'm home," Erskine called into the Midnight Hotel as he entered, pulling off his coat and loosening his tie — just a little. It had been feeling just a bit too tight lately. Erskine couldn't tell if that was because it felt like an impending noose around his neck, or something else.

There was no answer from Rover, so Rover wasn't there, and he could hear the water running in the kitchen, so he went in that direction.

The Hotel had been empty for months, except for Dead Men. To be fair, there had been a lot of repairs, and most of those were done. Anton had taken to the wards with a focus that was frankly kind of terrifying. Now they were complete, the Remnants were back where they belonged, all the broken furniture had been replaced and the bloodstains had been removed. And yet, the Midnight Hotel stood practically empty.

None of them were quite talking about it. Hopeless had told them what to do; he hadn't told them how long to do it for. But that was why Erskine didn't hesitate to enter the kitchen, tossing his coat onto the counter.

"Fancy meeting you here," he said to Anton, glancing around. The sink was running over some dirty dishes and Anton was sitting on a stool with a pot large enough for Larrikin to fit in, if he squeezed, between his knees. there was the acrid scent of something having burned in the air. Erskine hesitated. "I don't suppose Larrikin was trying to replicate a Mythbuster's experiment again?"

Anton looked up at him past fringe, and it was a dark, craggy look. "Do you think I would let Larrikin replicate a Mythbuster's experiment?"

"I think Larrikin does a lot of things without being let," said Erskine, and since the alternative was that Anton had burned something —

It was like trying to imagine Ghastly slipping on a seam. It just wouldn't happen.

And yet.

Erskine waved a hand to flip the tap off and rolled up his sleeves. He had nothing to apologise for. He'd long since not had anything to apologise for, but sometimes he liked rolling up his sleeves and joining Anton in the ditch, as it were.

"What were you making?" he asked as he started sorting the dishes, because curiosity and masochism were sometimes the same thing. He took the chance to glance toward Anton's bowed head. His braid was messy, coming loose. Erskine honestly couldn't remember Anton looking anything other than immaculate. Even when he'd been elbow-deep in bread dough, he managed to look immaculate. Floury hands were deliberate. Now he seemed — messy. Disorganised.

It was almost as bad a thought as Dexter not caring.

"Stew."

"You burned stew?"

Something clanged in the pot as Anton withdrew his head to glare, and Erskine raised his hands with a chuckle. And then he stopped, because the glare was a glare, and Dexter had not gotten better after a year, and frankly Erskine didn't know whether Anton was either. Hopeless knew how minds work, but Hopeless was trying to govern the country. And Hopeless, occasionally, could be wrong. It wasn't fair to let him take responsibility for saying 'go'.

So Erskine leaned back against the counter and asked, "How are you feeling?"

"How do you think?" Anton snapped, and then took a deep breath, an explicit breath; the kind of breath Skulduggery took when he was trying to rein himself in. He thunked his head back against the cabinets behind him. And then again. Quickly Erskine reached down to put his hand between head and timber, and Anton exhaled long and slow, and trembling.

"I think," he said, tightly controlled but in the way that didn't hide what was under it, "I understand what Skulduggery felt the day he walked away from us."

Something in Erskine's chest lurched. "Do you — do you think you'll —?"

"No." The words were almost too fast, and Anton knew it, because he stopped to give the moment weight, and then said again, more firmly, "No. I will not be that man. It would be easy to, if I didn't have Skulduggery's example to look at. I will not. I will not."

The last was softer, and tired, as if he was trying to convince himself; and Erskine tweaked his hair. "Come on. Put the pot down for a minute and turned around so I can do your hair. I'm surprised Rover didn't abscond with you."

"Dexter went out this morning and forgot to leave a note," said Anton, and that was all he needed to say. Rover panicked easily sometimes. But Anton let the pot drop the few inches to the floor, and swung on the stool until his back was facing Erskine, and Erskine found the cord on the end of the braid. He'd been washing it, which was a far cry from the reports Erskine had heard about Dexter a few months ago. Just, apparently, not in possession of the patience to actually braid it properly.

"So you're angry all the time," said Erskine, just as something to start with while he ran his fingers through Anton's hair. It'd been a while since he'd done this. Only Anton had kept his hair long after the war ended, but in the field there had been numerous moments when stopping at a barber hadn't been a viable option.

Anton grunted.

"Yes, I'm stating the obvious." Anton grunted again, so this time Erskine went on. "Hopeless said to stick with things as if everything is normal, but that's hard when no one's coming to the Hotel, isn't it? There's no one here to wait on."

"The rumours have gotten around," said Anton bitterly. Anton wasn't usually bitter about anything. "How can I blame them? They're not wrong."

"But you are," said Erskine, and got his fingers caught in hair when Anton's head jerked. "Well, you are. It's not your fault. You're blaming everyone for everything right now. As long as you're not going out and hunting down patrons to murder them in their beds, I think you're probably doing okay on that front." He straightened out the three sections and started again. "And they are wrong. You're not the gist."

"Am I not?" Anton said in a low voice, one that was different to how he would have said it a year ago. This time it was dangerous, on the edge of a knife of despair. Good thing Erskine knew a lot about that.

"No," he said firmly. "I don't know if you've noticed, but you don't have black eyes and claws for hands. You aren't trying to kill things. You're not like you were. That doesn't mean broken. Or it doesn't mean unfixable, anyway."

"How do you know?"

Erskine thought of Mevolent's dungeon and the darkness in him; he thought of shaking in Hopeless's arms and pleading for Hopeless to give up, because everything was too hard and it would be easier if Hopeless just let him go.

"Because I wasn't," he said quietly, and Anton said nothing, and Erskine took a deep breath. He had to force himself to go on, but it was a hump — just a hump, not a boulder. Not something he felt like he couldn't surmount. "I know what you're feeling. It didn't happen to me the same way. I don't have a gist. But when you're feeling things you know are wrong, and you can't seem to make them stop, and no matter what you do they're still there — believe me, I know that. There were days I spent trying to convince Hopeless to stop trying to save me, just because it hurt so much having to try."

Anton shifted on the stool, but Erskine had enough length on the braid that it no longer mattered. "How did you know?"

That was a different question from before. "The gist isn't just fury," said Erskine, "it's hatred as well, and I listen. Your gist is predicated on despair." Anton twitched. "Rover said some things about Ballinasloe." Anton twitched again. "I don't know whether Skulduggery went through that kind of despair, or whether he mostly knows the fury. But I did, and I'm telling you. I know —" His voice went thick. "I know what you're feeling. And it does get better. So I'm going to help you do your dishes, okay? And then I'll probably go around and start seeing if I can get some of your patrons back. I might have two for you already."

"Who?"

"I asked the Monster Hunters to meet me here. The Sanctuary's been sending them all over the place lately; I want to know why. That, and I have some favours to ask."

Anton said nothing while Erskine tied off the end of the braid and looked critically at his hair. It wasn't as neat as Anton usually liked it, but it was better than before. He turned back to the sink to find the soap before Anton said anything else.

"If you bring back my patrons," he started, and Erskine didn't look over.

"Won't happen."

"What if —"

"You don't ask what if, Shudder, you just do it."

"I never knew," Anton said, "how much the gist removed uncertainty. I never knew —"

Erskine did look then, just a side-glance, and Anton's expression was troubled. If he'd been another man Erskine would have said it was afraid. But why couldn't it be? The gist was made of every negative emotion, tied by the leash of one. It made sense that the gist could have taken them away, or made them dull, because it ate them faster than Anton could feel them.

"Never knew?" he asked, because that was what Hopeless would have done, and Anton jerked, as if he'd forgotten he'd said anything. He looked up at Erskine, and he looked tired, and he looked old, and that was something Erskine didn't like. Anton Shudder was greying, not old. He didn't get old.

"I never knew it was keeping me balanced," he said finally.

"It wasn't. It's a gist."

"That's not what I —"

"I've been camping out in Corrival's house," said Erskine, "and raiding his library. The gist is a geas to your magic. It's not keeping you balanced. You're keeping it. Just because it happens to absorb some of your emotions before you lose your head doesn't make it balanced." He crouched in front of Anton and snapped his fingers, and cradled a flame in his palm. "I'm sure Dex could come up with a better metaphor if he was thinking about it, but I work with fire, so fire is what you get. You and the gist are like a flame. The part that burns and spreads and takes over everything are the flames, but what really keeps it hot is the centre. The more condensed it gets, the hotter it is. The gist doesn't exist without it, without you. You're overwhelmed right now, and how. But everything you used to be able to feel, everything that isn't hate and rage and despair, all those things aren't gone. Just hidden. Eventually, they'll come back."

He closed his fist and snuffed out the fire. "I know that because mine did. Hopeless had faith in me, so I'm going to have faith in you, and also rent a room when Dexter and Rover aren't here. But if you don't want to hurt people, Shudder, then don't. Six hundred years of control isn't worth nothing. Don’t mistake the gist for something you need. If anything, it’s the other way around."

Anton rested his head back against the cabinets and took a deep breath, and let it out shudderingly. "Hopeless told me much the same thing six months ago. Though I liked your metaphor."

"Good," said Erskine, smiling to hide relief. He stood and held out his hand, and after a moment Anton took it. "So how did you burn the stew?"

"I don't know," Anton admitted. "I didn't turn it up high. I know better, despite my current lack of patience. And I didn't forget it was there. I set an alarm just in case."

Erskine grinned. "So it's possible that Rover did, in fact, mess with the stew?"

Anton scowled, and it was a strange look on him, an alien look. "I'll kill him."

But that didn't sound real, and so Erskine laughed and clapped a hand to his shoulder and went back to the sink. "Well, you know what they say about falling off horses."

"Roll, or you'll be stepped on," said Anton, and picked up the pot to put it in another sink to soak for a bit longer. They didn't say much else after that, because Anton was the least talkative of them all, but Erskine put some music on his phone and that made the silence bearable for him, just because he didn't like silence. Anton's company was better, and he seemed a little less tense. Still apt to growl at a piece of grime that wasn't coming loose, or swear at a splash of water; and all of those were novelties. They were almost funny, and Erskine at first withheld his laughter and then decided that that, above all, must have been what Hopeless meant about 'acting normal'.

By the time the front door opened the dishes were sparkling clean and sat in neat but wet piles on the counter, and Anton's hands were shaking just a little too much to want to hold them. He had, he admitted to Erskine grumpily, dropped a few in the course of the last few months already. Erskine didn't really want to chap his hands more trying to dry them, so Gracious's voice out in the lobby was a relief.

"I'll get it." Erskine draped the towel over Anton's shoulder and went, waving. "You took your time. Anton's been a slave-driver, so now I'm going to order you to help."

"Um." Gracious hesitated, and held up a hand. "Not to refuse a Dead Man, but when you said you had a few favours to ask, staffing the Midnight Hotel wasn't what came to mind."

"If I can turn my hands to prunes washing dishes," Erskine told him, "you can stand to dry them after. Bane." He nodded to Donegan, slightly less friendly than he would have been a few years ago. Saracen had told him Donegan's reaction to Hopeless's magic. It wasn't fair to blame him, but Erskine did it anyway.

"Ravel," said Bane with a nod back, and Gracious sighed.

"Can we not do this, Dad?" he whined, and Erskine had a quip ready except then Gracious pointed at him. "Erskine wasn't even there."

Erskine blinked. "Wasn't where?"

Donegan muttered something under his breath, something Erskine didn't hear, but Gracious put an arm around Bane's shoulders. "The world hasn't blown up, and the Grand Mage hasn't turned evil, so —"

Oh. Erskine tensed.

"I'm not about to do anything stupid," said Bane to him, a little tersely. "I'm just not as okay with a — someone of his magic in charge as I thought I was."

"If you talked to him —" Erskine began, trying to stay calm.

"Pass," said Bane, and Erskine's calm cracked.

"For God's sake, Bane, you've known the man for how many centuries —"

Anton cleared his throat behind Erskine, and a shiver of shame and irk crawled up Erskine's spine to make him cringe. He turned. Anton stood with arms crossed and expression flat. Not his usual calm impassivity, but actually flat. "Is this what you were talking about when you said I didn't have to murder people in their beds if I chose not to?"

Erskine winced. "Well. I'm not planning to murder Bane in his bed, so I'd say it's different."

"Frankly," said Anton, "it's a miracle Bane's the only one who's reacting this way."

"I still don't like it," Erskine muttered, and behind him he heard feet shifting.

"Um." Gracious put up his hand again, the one that wasn't around Donegan's shoulders, and his gaze was definitely aimed over Erskine's shoulder at Anton. "So I heard that Shudder was, well ..."

"Gisted?" suggested Erskine, and Gracious nodded. "He's not. The gist hasn't taken him over. It's just kind of — blended with him. Ish."

They both stared at him, and then over Anton's shoulder, and then back. Finally Bane asked, "How did that happen?"

"A Faceless One did something to the tether between him and the gist a few years ago," said Erskine, "and then when a Remnant tried to possess him the gist ate it. We think the possession broke down the rest of the barriers." Erskine shrugged. "Now Anton is just your ordinary gent with a bit of an anger management problem."

"Sure," said Gracious with a cheer that didn't quite hit critical mass, "if by 'anger management problem' you mean 'could Hulk out at any time'." He stopped. They all stopped. Gracious tipped his head thoughtfully. "You know what, I meant that sarcastically, but I'm gonna stand by it. Is that what's it's like, Shudder? You're always angry?"

"Yes," said Anton, sounding a bit surprised, and thoughtful, and when Erskine turned he saw genuine consideration on Anton's face. "Though I'd prefer not to be green."

"You're Irish," said Bane, "I thought that went with the territory." He shook Gracious's arm off his shoulders and took a few steps in, looking around. "Does that mean we have the Hotel to ourselves?"

Gracious perked up. "Does that mean we can break out the contraband?"

"No," said Anton, snarlier than he probably meant and snarlier than any of them expected, and then he stopped and took a breath, and said slightly more evenly, "Mythbusters is still prohibited in the Midnight Hotel."

The Monster Hunters stared, and there was a look in their eyes that would usually have made Erskine jump in, but on this occasion he didn't. They looked at each other. They looked at Anton.

"Do you think —" began Gracious.

"— we could figure out some kind of elixir?" Bane finished. "You know, an on-switch off-switch?"

"I am not Doctor Jekyll and Mister Hyde," said Anton with traces of irritability and something, dare Erskine say it, which sounded a lot like sulk.

"Well, it worked for him," Gracious pointed out.

"Up until Hyde started coming out on his own," said Erskine, and clapped a hand to Anton's shoulder. "You see? Literature is rife with examples."

"Most of them died or went insane," said Anton.

"Shudder, if you think you count as sane while having a despair demon sucking out all your hatred, have I got news for you. Luckily, you're in good company." Erskine squeezed his shoulder and pointed commandingly at the front desk. "Bane, O'Callaghan, put your luggage by the front desk and follow me. We've got dishes to dry."

"Don't you want to hear our report first?" asked Gracious with desperation. "Maybe over brandy, in a smoking jacket, next to a fireplace?"

"Nope," said Erskine with Larrikin's vicious cheer. "We are definitely doing dishes. You can give me your report while Anton fixes up your rooms. You're booking in for at least a week, by the way."

"But I had a date for a few days in —" Gracious began, and Erskine crossed his arms, and Gracious wilted. "Why?"

"We do need some time to sit down and finish our next book," said Bane.

"And Anton needs patrons," said Erskine. "He needs patrons to prove he can handle more patrons. And he's definitely Dr Banner, not Dr Jekyll. I like that analogy. I'm going to use that analogy a lot."

Anton grunted on his way up the stairs, and Erskine laughed, mostly because he could.


	10. Tattletale

There wasn't much Dexter and Skulduggery could do on the scene of the fire after interviewing Duchnaj. They made sure the survivors would be taken care of, and asked some people a few more questions, but the paramedics were a lot more considerate than Dexter remembered healers being and Marmot was definitely trying to avoid getting on their bad side. Talking about princes had that effect. Although in Marmot's case it was probably the magic.

Marmot agreed, slightly dazed, to call them with any updates or information he might get. He hadn't been able to help out with this Kenny Dunne fellow, but they had some time.

Mostly Dexter stood aside and watched Skulduggery be excruciatingly polite and trying to be considerate, and at the same time prodded his metaphorical bubble-wrap, and by the time they got in the Bentley Dexter's smile felt real.

"Was that for my benefit?" he asked.

"Was what?"

"You were trying to be considerate. I've never seen you try to be considerate before."

"I'm considerate all the time," said Skulduggery indignantly.

"You patted her on the shoulder, dead man."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

They pulled out onto the street in a gap Skulduggery created by nudging forward until someone had to drop back, horn blaring. The traffic was marginally better on this side, now that people were aware to avoid the street. "Where are we headed next? Back to the Sanctuary?"

"Not yet," said Skulduggery, "but if you can give Hopeless a call to ask where Erskine is, I think he'll be our next target. We're going to want some things from the Tír."

"Maybe we should ask Hopeless about that," Dexter muttered, digging out his phone. "Doesn't the Sanctuary have an international relationship with the Tír these days?"

"Erskine is faster. He's their prince. He is, dare I say it, a dual citizen."

Dexter laughed and dialled Hopeless, and it rang four times before Hopeless picked up. "This is ominous. You're calling me already?"

"Where's Erskine lately?" Dexter asked.

"I see. You're only after me to get to Erskine. I think I ought to be offended, Dexter, I really do." Hopeless's smile was audible in his voice, for all that his voice was telepathically generated these days. "We've — he's been living out of Corrival's house the last six months."

"We? Are you sure I'm not the one who should be getting jealous?"

"What can I say, Vex? We wanted a private slumber party, and Corrival's house is closer than mine. If Erskine's not there then he's probably at the Hotel. He mentioned he wanted to talk to the Monster Hunters."

"Corrival's house is practically on the way," Skulduggery noted. "Thank you, Grand Mage."

"Oh, now you've done it," said Hopeless. "Now you've pulled out the title, I'm going to have to ask for updates."

"Paul Lynch was having visions of a nuclear armageddon in Dublin," Dexter offered, "and talking to a reporter."

There was a moment of silence on the other end of the phone, except for the crackle of the thoughtspeaker picking up minds in the Sanctuary Hopeless was stopping from being audible. "That is alarming," said Hopeless finally, dropping all pretenses at gaiety, and sounding tired. Dexter grimaced. It seemed appropriate. He may have been blunter than he should have been. Maybe. "You want to talk to Erskine about getting some information on Paul from the Tír, I take it?"

"And also what he's been doing in relation to smoothing the revelation of the Tír's existence," said Skulduggery. "There's a reason Lynch came back to see a reporter, and nuclear warheads are mortal weapons. It has to be related."

"I agree," said Hopeless. "I'll see what I can do from a diplomatic standpoint. We can't always rely on Erskine charming people into giving us what we want, Skulduggery. The Tír is a sovereign city."

"But it's faster if we do."

"In the moment, maybe, but it breeds resentment. It can take care of itself. It's not Erskine's plaything."

Skulduggery sighed. "I knew you were going to say that. That's why I didn't want to tell you anything yet."

"He's Hopeless," Dexter protested. "What was I going to do, say nothing? You're the one who called him the Grand Mage."

"An oversight on my part, I'm sure. I'm still going to talk to Erskine, Descry. If something's going wrong enough that the probability of a nuclear warhead in Dublin is high enough that the event is being seen as visions, then we're going to need all avenues open."

Hopeless sighed, long and staticky. "Alright. You're right. But don't run roughshod over them, all right? There's been enough of that lately."

"Understood." Skulduggery flicked his fingers to press the button on the side of Dexter's phone, ending the call. Dexter scowled.

"Hey. It was in my hand. I'm capable of turning off the phone. Even with this hand, I'm capable of turning off my phone."

He proved it by squeezing the sides to make the phone go to lockscreen, and was startled by the fact that his hand trembled to do it.

"Well?" asked Skulduggery. "Did it work?"

"Of course it worked." Dexter frowned at his hand, flexing it. With the glove on, he shouldn't be having trouble with that. Except — except there hadn't been a lot of need to put the glove on, the last few months, when he'd been doing nothing but sitting around the Midnight Hotel. Dexter sighed. "Bollocks."

"Mm?"

"I've been forgetting to wear my glove. My hand's lost tone."

"Ah," said Skulduggery, and it was the sort of 'ah' that should have something after it, except nothing followed. Dexter scowled.

"I could still turn off my phone," he muttered belligerently. "It was working fine six months ago."

"You were a Remnant six months ago," said Skulduggery, "and you haven't been wearing your glove."

Dexter didn't answer but stared out the window, frowning. He remembered sometimes putting it on, mostly when Anton needed help with some heavy lifting; but usually remembering involved trying to pick something up and dropping it. After the Hotel was repaired, it stopped being as necessary. And he didn't remember seeing Kenspeckle in the last six months, though Rover had been making him take his medicine like clockwork.

Damn it. "I'll have to ask Kenspeckle about it."

"And admit you haven't been taking care of yourself? Better you than me."

"I'll blame it on you, dead man, see if I don't."

"I don't think you have enough gall for that."

It was idle, stupid conversation, but it passed the time until they got to Corrival's house. There were no cars in the drive, not that it mattered when Erskine couldn't be trusted behind the wheel anyway; but the moment they got out Skulduggery said, "He's not here."

"You're not a mind-reader," Dexter accused, and Skulduggery pointed at the ground.

"It rained out here last night. The ground's muddy, and there's tracks in it. But by all means, Vex, go and check the door if you don't believe me."

Just to be spiteful, Dexter did go and check the door, and tap on the windows. The door was locked, the windows shut, and there was no light or signs of movement inside. He came back to Skulduggery at a jog, shaking his head, to find Skulduggery already back inside the Bentley.

Dexter blew a raspberry at him, just because he could and he chose to, and came around the passenger's side to get in. "Fine. He's not there. Happy?"

"Ecstatic," said Skulduggery, and they pulled away. "How long has the Hotel been in Ireland now?"

Dexter had to check the time. "We have about an hour, at most. I think we got here at five in the morning or so."

"Excellent. Let's avoid getting caught in it."

"Hey, I live there."

"But our case is in Ireland. If you need somewhere to stay, you can always break into Corrival's."

"I'll shake down Ravel for the key."

The location the Hotel had been coming to wasn't far from Corrival's, down the highway a bit. It didn’t take long to get there, and when they pulled up and got out, Skulduggery looked at the ground, and pointed. "Ah, see? Tyre tracks again. The same as before, if I'm not mistaken. Erskine is probably the taxi company's best friend."

"No one likes a show off," Dexter accused, and Skulduggery laughed, and they went in.

There were people inside. People. In the Hotel. The sight of luggage at the front desk, and the sound of voices issuing from the kitchen, were so unexpected as to make Dexter blink. "I know that voice."

"Sounds like Gracious and Donegan have arrived," said Skulduggery, adjusting his hat. He'd been doing that a lot today, Dexter realised.

"Do they make you nervous, dead man?" He stopped, and narrowed his eyes at Skulduggery. "Do I?"

"Don't be ridiculous," said Skulduggery. "I'm simply acutely aware that I, of all people, might be viewed as setting an example for the rest of you."

"What, on how to be a supervillain? Pass."

Skulduggery's head turned very slowly to look at him, and Dexter grinned. "It is," said Skulduggery slowly and with great dignity, "the onus of responsibility I bear in leading the way for those of you who may, I specify may, need the extra help."

"You've been talking too much to Hopeless," said Dexter, and ambled to the doorway to look in. He expected the Monster Hunters, and he expected Erskine. He didn't expect to get a face full of sponge, and spluttered, coughing, as it slid off his face, hit his chest on the way down, and landed with a squelch on the floor.

"Oops," said Gracious sheepishly while Erskine almost killed himself laughing, leaning against the counter.

"That wasn't a welcome I expected," muttered Dexter, reaching down to pick up the sponge and come into the kitchen properly. "Where's Anton?"

"Upstairs, making up a room for these idiots," said Erskine, grinning. The look he was giving Dex was kind of a combination of uncertainty and consideration, and whatever he saw he shrugged and came forward to sling his arm across Dexter's shoulders. "You're lucky. We just finished drying and putting away the dishes."

"He made us do dishes," Gracious complained. "He called us here for favours and he made us do dishes."

"Better you than me," said Dexter, and paused. "Oh, wait. It has been me. Maybe. Probably. I'll have to ask Anton." He dumped the sponge in the sink.

"We came to talk to you," said Skulduggery to Erskine, adjusting his hat yet again. Bane was being very quiet, too, Dexter saw, and leaning up against the counter not looking particularly happy. "But it's about something I don't know if you'll want others to hear."

Erskine looked at the Monster Hunters, and hesitated. "Let me hear what they have to say first," he said finally.

"As long as it's fast," said Skulduggery. "Dexter says the Hotel will be moving again soon."

"Hey," Gracious protested, "why are we being left out of information? Haven't we been helpful to you lately?"

"If it's anything like the last bits, I'm not sure I want to know," said Bane, and for a moment everything in the kitchen stopped. Dexter stared at him, at his face, at the way it was tight and not exactly angry, and it took far too long to dredge up the correct description. It was frustration. It was frustration and it was fear.

"Are you scared of us?" he blurted out, and Bane flinched.

"Lovely diplomacy, Dex," Erskine muttered. "Really stellar."

"I've had my emotions on ice for six months and for the foreseeable future. What's your excuse?"

"Excuse me. I've been talking to Hopeless —"

"Can you just —" Donegan interrupted them sharply, and when they all turned toward him he took a deep breath and put his face in his hands. "I'm not cut out for this. I'm a Monster Hunter. I'm an author. I'm not cut out for making friends with monsters."

There was a long moment of silence. Then Erskine said quietly, "Are you calling Dexter and Skulduggery monsters? Are you calling Hopeless a monster?"

"Yes," said Bane, and flinched before anyone had even answered, and shook his head. "No. I don't know."

"We've known Dexter for years," Gracious pointed out, but lacklustre, like that was something he'd been saying for days.

"I know that. It's just — I'm ..." Bane held out his hands as if to take them all in and shook his head. "Dead Men is one thing. D'you know how often I heard 'Dead Men this' and 'Dead Men that'? It stopped meaning much of anything after I'd known Dex for a while. Like how 'Monster Hunters' stopped meaning much of anything. It's just words. I'm a writer. I know all about words."

"So what's your issue?" Erskine demanded.

"Where do you want me to start?" Donegan said back, just as hotly. "One of you's an ex-supervillain. One of you might be half a Remnant. One of you is half a gist. One of you is practically a god."

"Hopeless wouldn't like being called that," Dexter muttered, and went utterly ignored.

"And then there's Saracen, and God only knows what his magic is, but it's probably something absurdly stupidly powerful —"

"Well, you're not wrong."

"Dexter," said Skulduggery, "shut up."

"Shutting up."

"That leaves Larrikin, Bespoke, and you, Ravel," said Bane. His face was pale and he was going on with a weird kind of grim determination. "So, come on. What have the three of you been hiding that make you terrifying? It's got to be something."

Dexter looked at Erskine. Skulduggery looked at Erskine. Erskine looked back, his jaw clenched but with something almost lost in his eyes.

"You mean there is something?" Gracious asked, and it was the smallness of his tone that did it, that made Erskine flinch. The lostness was replaced by determination, followed by a firming of Erskine's perfect jaw, and then he took a breath and let it out and looked at the Monster Hunters.

"I founded and built an interdimensional city where mortals and sorcerers live side-by-side in full knowledge that magic exists," he said.

They stared. Dexter couldn't blame them. He wanted to raise his hand and offer some reassurance, but he wasn't sure it would come out like that.

"You built an interdimensional city," said Bane carefully.

"Yes."

"How?"

"I know a shunter. He was able to do it. It's still connected to our dimension, there's bridges and links — it's complicated. We can access it from here but it's hidden from plain sight by being shrouded in a different dimension."

Gracious's hand shot up with so aggressively that he almost took himself off his feet, and looked startled by it. "And mortals know about magic?"

Erskine nodded. "There's about a million people there and a third of them are sorcerers. The infrastructure is built mostly on sigils and leylines, like the Hotel. It's self-sufficient and governed internally."

"They call him their prince," said Dexter, and shut up when Erskine sent him a furious look.

"Are you?" Gracious asked. "Isn't that how royalty gets started, someone declares themselves as sovereign and everyone just kind of goes along with it?"

"The Tír is a democracy," Erskine said shortly, "not a monarchy."

"I'm sorry, what did you call it?" Bane demanded.

"Tír Tairngire."

They started. Gracious looked at Bane but Bane didn't look back, and so Gracious went back to staring at Erskine. "You took the myth of a faery-land," said Bane finally, "and made it real?"

"Yeah."

Bane took a breath and sagged against the counter, and put his face in his hands. "And Larrikin? Bespoke?"

"Larrikin's over a thousand years old." Bane twitched. Gracious stared some more. "He used stone power a little too often though, so I'm not sure you can strictly say he's lived for all of it. As for Ghastly ..." Erskine shrugged. "He's cursed? I don't know, I don't think he has any deep dark looming secrets. He might just be the most ordinary out of all of us."

A choking sound came from under Bane's hands, and Gracious quietly turned around to fill a glass with water, and hold it out until Bane lifted his head to take it. "So this report we're supposed to be giving you," said Donegan with a weird kind of fragile calm, "about a bunch of mortals and how they seem to be holding up. Is that related to this faery-land?"

"They're people I told about magic recently," said Erskine. "I wanted to know how they're doing. And then I had a bunch of other names I wanted you to check for me to see how receptive they'd be to knowing about magic."

This time all of them stared. Even Skulduggery turned his head. Finally Dexter asked, "How many people in high-up positions know about magic at this point? And in which governments?"

Erskine looked up at the ceiling, tapping his fingers against his palm. "The UN representatives for about half of Africa," he said finally. "The reps for a bunch of the Nordic countries, and a number of people in their governments. Angela Merkel and a good chunk of the German leadership; Warheit is going to get pissy about that, but I think we can manage it. Maybe a dozen in Russia — that's an interesting situation. They're easy sells, they're just not inclined to do anything with the information, so I haven't been back there until I know how to approach Dragunuv. He can probably do more with them. I've told a couple of people in the US Congress, but the president doesn't know, I'm working on that access. Some Hollywood celebrities. Nicholas Cage actually is a sorcerer, but he had no idea anyone else was. That was one hell of a conversation. Some of Australia's politicians two decades ago, but they've been such a revolving door lately that I haven't dared dip my toe in recently ..."

"You can stop talking now," said Gracious, looking pale, so Erskine stopped. It wasn't funny, it wasn't funny at all, but Dexter couldn't help but think of the way he'd reacted to Erskine telling him about the Tír while two-hundred feet above the ocean, on an air-ferry. He started laughing and couldn't stop, and bent inward until Skulduggery put a hand on his elbow to guide him into one of the kitchen chairs.

"Dexter?" Dexter drew in a deep breath and it did absolutely nothing to stop the laughter. He didn't even know what he was laughing for, except that some things didn't change, even between people, and this whole thing was just that farcical.

'I don't know why I'm laughing,' he signed with shaking hands. 'Ignore me. Just ignore me.' He put his head in his arms and laugh-cried into the table, and then felt another chair draw up next to him and Erskine sit down, resting one hand on his shoulder.

"Do either of you have any questions?" Erskine asked the Monster Hunters.

"How the hell haven't you been bunged in a deep cell to rot yet?" Donegan demanded. "There's a pact, Ravel!"

"The pact is stupid," said Erskine.

"What, and you just decided that all on your own!?"

"No," said Erskine in the tight way he did when he was biting back additional words. Probably something to the effect of 'Hopeless helped', because a mind-reader was the only possible professional opinion on this, and Bane wasn't taking that well. "But tell me I'm wrong. People — sorcerers — don't ever consider what life could be like. They're all too bound up in what it is now, and what it used to be. Don't you think Ghastly wishes he could walk out onto the street and not have people look at him weirdly? Well, on the Tír, he can. Haven't the two of you complained about having trouble with your jobs because you have to keep things secret? _You don't have to._ You think the planet is going to survive another century with all the pollution being pumped into it? Sigil-tech is emissions free. Can you imagine how many people in third-world countries, people starving and dying of disease and malnourishment, can be saved by free, public magic-technology? By infrastructure built with magic by people who know it? Can you imagine how many people will be able to come out of the darkness for the first time in their lives, because no one fears them?"

He got to his feet again at some point, and Dexter's laughter died somewhere along the way, so there was only fierceness and conviction in the air. Dexter turned his head on his arms to watch as Erskine pointed. "The two of you are inventors. Why? What do you hope to produce out of it? Do you seriously think you're doing that for _money_? O'Callaghan, if you got that air-reader working, can you imagine how useful it would be to miners? Bane, don't you have blueprints for a new kind of defibrillator? Imagine if there was no blocks to you patenting and selling that to companies who could put it to use, to _saving people's lives_."

They looked at each other, but Erskine was on a roll now, and didn't stop. "And yes, Hopeless helped. Hopeless knows what people need. He knows that sorcerers and mortals, deep down, want the same things. They need shelter, food, water, opportunity. They want safety, consistency, and support. Where on that list is 'keeping our people separate'? How well did 'separate but equal' work for America, anyway? You think sorcerers really, truly, think mortals are on the same level? You think that's something that can be fixed by sorcerers lurking around in the shadows to _protect_ them?"

"Wasn't that Deuce's position?" Gracious asked. "And Meritorious's? To help mortals from the shadows?"

"Yes," said Erskine, "and they were wrong. They didn't go far enough. There's no reason for us to hide. And with the kind of technology that's out now, how long do you think we can?"

"You still could've told someone," said Bane, angry but the empty kind, the kind that was vanishing, grudgingly, even as he spoke.

"I did," said Erskine. "I have. That's all I've been doing for the last century — _telling people_. So, what, now you're angry because they're finally listening?"

There was a long silence, and Dexter watched Erskine's back with fascination. The way he went from regal, commanding intensity, the way it all drained out of him and left him shifting his feet a little awkwardly. It was like he didn't realise how much he transformed. The only times Dexter had seen him that driven was when one of them needed rescuing. He opened his mouth once and then shut it again, and Dexter wondered what he was going to say.

Finally, finally, Gracious broke the silence, his voice still small but his eyes wide and full of wonderment. "Can we see it?"

Erskine's shoulders drooped with relief, and he let out a scattered laugh. "Do me a favour, O'Callaghan, and I'll see about getting you in the door for a visit."

Gracious looked at Bane. Bane looked up at the ceiling, around at the kitchen, and finally back at Erskine. "What favour?"

"Tell me what Guild and Bliss have been sending you out to do.“


	11. Making favours

"Give us a minute," said Gracious, and tugged on Bane's sleeve until Bane shook him off but followed him down the other end of the kitchen. They went into a huddle, whispering, and Erskine turned his back on them to give them some privacy. He couldn't hear them anyway.

"Feeling better?" he asked Dexter instead, who still had his head pillowed on his arms at one of the counters.

"I don't know why I did that," Dexter said, frowning. "It wasn't like Rover made me laugh and I couldn't stop. I've done that before. Nothing was even funny."

"Hopeless says sometimes emotions can do weird things when they're being weird."

Dexter scoffed, a touch belated like it was something he had to consciously do. "Don't quit your day job to become a psychologist, Ravel."

"Wasn't counting on it." Erskine turned instead to Skulduggery, expectantly. The skeleton was looking out through the door into the dining room, as if he hadn't been paying attention to the, let's be honest, actual fight going on. "Skulduggery?"

Skulduggery gave a little jerk and turned with shades of surprise. "Ah, all done? Excellent."

"How much of that did you ignore?"

"Sadly," said Skulduggery, "not nearly as much as I wanted. You know, this is the sort of reaction I always imagined, even in my greatest hopes. The difference is that usually the reaction is directed at me and only me, and not all the rest of you by proxy."

"Let's be fair," said Dexter, "Erskine deserves it on his own merit, not on yours."

Skulduggery tipped his head in a way that meant concession. "I suppose I can't expect all of you to revolve around me all the time."

Erskine barked a laugh. "What made you think we ever did?"

"My animal magnetism." Skulduggery shook his head. "Out of curiosity, did any of those people whom you've told about magic have access to nuclear launch codes?"

Erskine blinked. "I don't know. They didn't when I told them; I stayed away from strictly military types, in case they saw us as a threat first and decided to do something stupid. I suppose some of them could have moved into that kind of position by now. Why?"

"Because a Sensitive was seeing an armageddon involving a nuclear warhead dropped onto Dublin."

There was a moment of silence while the three of them contemplated that, one for the first time.

"That's alarming," said Erskine finally. "Which Sensitive?"

"Actually," said Skulduggery, "that's what's troubling. He was one of the Tír's. Apparently he asked to be allowed to come back, and was living out of a halfway house in Dublin."

Erskine frowned. "There's only one halfway house in Dublin."

"Well," said Dexter, "not anymore. Someone burned it down this afternoon, a few hours after someone murdered the Sensitive in his bed. There were some survivors, including the manager."

Something in Erskine's chest shrivelled up a bit, even while he felt resigned. He'd gotten used to war. In war, you couldn't save everyone. In war, there were casualties. But this wasn't a war — or it shouldn't have been. He'd been getting used to the damages being levelled at them, at the Dead Men, when there were any at all. He should have known better. The Tír had been involved in their problems three years running now. Of course that wouldn't have changed.

"So now you want more information on the Sensitive," said Erskine, and his voice was calm.

"Hopeless wanted to leverage some diplomatic relationships, but if there's nuclear weapons involved frankly I'd be more comfortable with a bit of extra speed." Skulduggery tilted his head, this time with amusement. "You did just sort-of promise to take the Monster Hunters there, you know."

Erskine scrubbed his face. "I'd be more comfortable with that too," he muttered, "but Descry's right. We can't just keep running roughshod. Technically speaking, the Tír owes us nothing."

"It owes you its life," Skulduggery pointed out.

"As Corrival pointed out so adroitly, it's my baby, and babies grow up, and sometimes they stop needing their parents. I'm not gonna be the dad who hovers over his kid’s studies and demands recompense for putting a roof over their heads, Skulduggery."

"Having visions of parentage, I see," said Skulduggery, but there was amusement in his tone, and that was about when the Monster Hunters came back.

"We accept your proposal," announced Gracious a little pompously, and Bane nodded next to him. "On one condition."

Erskine braced himself. "Tell me."

"We get full and exclusive rights to write your book," said Bane, and Gracious nodded vigorously beside him. "It'll make us a bundle, especially if we don't all get consumed in World War Three when the news about magic comes out. I'm gambling a lot on you, Ravel."

"We all are, Bane," said Erskine a little weakly. "We all are." He shook his head. "An hour ago you were ready to bung me in a cell, as you put it. Now you want the rights to my book? Who says I even plan to write a book?"

"We do," said Gracious, staring at him as if he was stupid. "That's the condition. We write your book. Over to you, Donegan."

"Frankly," said Bane, "as this point I feel like I should just get out of your bloody way. If Bespoke is the most normal of the lot, and he's the one who makes your magic clothes, then I want to be on your side. I'm still not okay, but if it's okay to not be okay, then I'll be not okay for a bit longer and then after a while maybe I will be okay."

"Did that sentence make sense to anyone else?" Erskine asked Dexter.

"I think my ears tripped over themselves," said Dexter, "but that sounded sort-of like what Descry and Skulduggery both said to me today, so it must be true for Bane too."

"Descry gave you a tongue-twister for therapy?"

"No, he said fake having emotions and healthy emotional reactions until they come true. I'm pretty sure that's what Bane just said. Anyway, Hopeless is your pet psychologist. Shouldn't you be able to translate that kind of gobbledygook?"

"I already gave Shudder his therapy session this morning," Erskine grumbled. "I didn't know I was booked in to give one to you and Bane. Fine." That last was directed at the Monster Hunters. "On one condition of my own. Sometime soon, Bane, you go and you actually talk to Hopeless. I'm pretty sure Saracen mentioned the drawbacks, so it's not like you're stupid. Just go and talk to the man, properly, and decide."

"It's the drawbacks that worry me," said Bane. "Saracen said he could get 'lost'. That means someone evil enough could turn him evil just by being around him. That doesn't strike you as a risk, if he's Grand Mage?"

"Oh, it does," Skulduggery assured him. "But then again, it isn't as though good leaders are thick upon the ground. Even Meritorious was struck by a bad case of complacency. It's the nature of leadership to be easily corruptible. At least with Hopeless it'll be easy to tell. When he gets lost, he starts acting unlike himself, with no notion that he _is_ himself. One doesn't tend to miss delusions of grandeur, cackling and declarations of murder."

"And there are plans in place in case anything like that happens, right?" Bane asked.

Skulduggery looked at Erskine. So did Dexter. Erskine looked blankly back, and then demanded, "Do I look like an Elder to you? Anyway, I'm not the one who's been sneaking around talking to the three of them."

"Neither have I," said Skulduggery. "At least, I haven't been sneaking."

Gracious put up his hand. "We have. At least, I think that's part of what Guild asked us to do. Bliss had us following —"

"Investigating," Bane corrected.

"— _investigating_ Kerias and a few of her associates. He said something about a secret they shouldn't have."

"That'd be the Tír," said Erskine. "Kerias got hold of aerial pictures in the few hours the Tír was in Earth's oceans instead of hidden, a couple of years back."

"Well, do we have a list of names for you," said Gracious, rummaging in his jean pockets before turning to his jacket, on the back of a chair, and rummaging there too. He finally pulled out a notepad and tore off a page and slapped it on Erskine's chest. "We got photographs of people she's been talking to."

"We can't say what she was talking to them about," said Bane, "but since she's one of Bisahalani's Elders, chances are he knows about it too."

"Maybe not," Erskine muttered. "Kerias is ambitious. She's always wanted to be Grand Mage herself. She might actually try to use this as leverage to get Bisahalani out of office."

Dexter put up his hand. "He is pretty obsessed with Hopeless right now. Tesseract crashed our breakfast, and Hopeless told him outright he knows who sent him."

Everyone stared, and finally Erskine said, anger restrained by a veneer of calm, "Why didn't you mention this?"

"I just remembered it. He's a big boy, Ravel, he can take care of himself, and did. He offered Tesseract a job as his private bodyguard."

Erskine scrubbed his face and felt like laughing and crying at once. His heart was still racing from that little tidbit, and he took a few deep breaths. Tesseract must be getting anxious if he's started gunning for Hopeless in near-public. "So Bisahalani's trying to kill Hopeless and Kerias knows about the Tír. The US is about to go bonkers, isn't it? Ten to one that's where that nuclear warhead is going to come from."

Gracious put up his hand again. "Um."

"Sensitive seeing visions of an apocalypse," explained Skulduggery succinctly. "You may be right. The US has always been stable, magic-wise, but not precisely reliable, and if there's any fallout from the Tír it's likely to be the American Sanctuary driving it."

"Probably," said Erskine, reaching for his phone to dial Saracen. It rang before he even thumbed the contact, and Erskine sighed, and answered. "No one likes a show-off."

"Everyone likes a show-off," said Saracen. "That's why I'm so lovable. I'm in a bit of a tight spot, Ravel."

"But not so tight that you waited for me to call you."

"Well, yes, there's that. Suffice to say I'm not in a position to talk totally openly. What do you need?"

"Sensitive had a vision of Dublin vanishing in the impact of a nuclear weapon," said Erskine. "I don't suppose you can look into it while you're there?"

There was a long pause and a sound like Saracen at first tried to restrain laughter, and then gave up. It was mildly hysterical. Erskine waited patiently and then Saracen took a deep breath and said, "Sure. And I'll just go meet the president while I'm at it. Do you drive everyone this hard, or am I just special?"

"Only for you, Rue." Erskine ended the call and looked back at them. "Right. Well, Saracen's been investigating ways to get me into the White House, so hopefully he'll be able to pick something up over there without Bisahalani finding out."

"He's at the White House?" Gracious asked with interest. "Can he bring me back a keyring?"

"Ask him yourself. So that's Bliss. What's Guild got you doing?"

"Guild asked us to canvass some of the other Sanctuaries," said Bane, reaching into a pocket and pulling out his own list, much less untidily scrawled than Gracious's. "In England, to start with, but he sent us all the way to Russia too. He told us to act like we were doing research for a book."

"Doing research on what?" Erskine asked, a little bemused. What would Guild want book research for?

Gracious and Donegan exchanged glances, and shrugged at each other. "He wanted us to see if we could find out how receptive some of the other Elders would be to finding out about the Grand Mage's magic."

Something in Erskine went very cold, and before he could really stop himself, or even muster a thought, he heard himself saying in a hard, cold voice: "No."

"I'm just telling you what he sent us out for," said Bane cautiously. "We didn't tell anyone."

"No one is telling anyone," Erskine snapped, and this time his voice shook. "What the _hell_ —"

"Erskine," Skulduggery interrupted, "I think Anton wants some help upstairs."

"The hell he does!" Erskine exploded, whirling on Skulduggery. "And where do you get off trying to get rid of me when they're —" Dexter caught the hand he used to point furiously, shakily, at the Monster Hunters, and Erskine choked on all the words that wanted to come out.

Skulduggery sighed. "I told Ghastly you'd react like this."

It took a few moments for that to sink in, and Erskine went rigid. "You — Ghastly knew?!"

"He's the one Guild talked to first," said Skulduggery. "I can't say I don't know how you're feeling. I wasn't too happy to hear it either. But anything that makes Ghastly think it over is worth considering. I _didn't_ realise that Guild would be sending anyone around to take a poll."

He didn't sound happy about the last, and that was the only thing that helped Erskine take a few deep breaths. That, and the way Dexter massaged the back of his hand until Erskine's fingers loosened some and Dexter could pry his fist open; and the way one of Dexter's hands shook just in trying encouraged Erskine take a few more. "Ghastly's in on this?"

It came out like a question, and more plaintive than Erskine thought it would. He couldn't help the feeling of betrayal. He didn't like it, but it was there, and Hopeless always said an emotion unacknowledged was an emotion he couldn't change.

Skulduggery nodded. "There is some logic to the argument. Guild says that if Hopeless's enemies know, we're only limiting ourselves from keeping it from our allies."

"Our allies could become our enemies if we tell them," Erskine said bitterly. "So that's what's got Hopeless having nightmares at night." Almost every night, even. Some nights Erskine woke up to the sound of Hopeless trying not to cry too loudly in the en-suite of Corrival's guest room. He always told him off for that, and even though he asked Hopeless never told him what he'd dreamed.

Skulduggery paused. "Hopeless has been having nightmares?"

"Just about every night. Between that and his head, I'm debating conspiring with Saracen to bring in some dubiously legal drugs, to hell with the law."

"Ooh, ooh." Gracious put up his hand. "Pick me. I know a guy in Temple Bar. I can get you some."

"Also, you do know the Taoiseach," Dexter pointed out. "You can go and lean on him to get some laws changed. Hell, you can probably go lean on the Health Minister." There was a pause. Erskine rubbed his face. Dexter glanced from Gracious to Donegan and said conversationally up at the ceiling, "The Monster Hunters didn't know."

"The Monster Hunters didn't know," Erskine agreed, "and now they do, since apparently we're bloody well going there with everything."

"We heard about the Remnants six months ago," said Donegan, "but we were international, so we didn't get details except that the government might possibly be aware of magic. You told the Taoiseach?"

"I asked him to run for office and helped fund his campaign a little," said Erskine, "out of my own pocket." He paused. "And Hopeless's. But Hopeless wasn't on the Council of Elders at the time, so there's no political conflicts of interest there. Now, however, I'm pretty sure it's a bad idea to go lean on the Minister of Health to legalise pot for the sake of Hopeless's migraines."

His tone came out dark, not dry like he intended. Damn it. What if he could —

No. No, Hopeless wouldn't want him to misuse his authority like that. Most people at the Government Buildings knew him by now as the ambassador from the sidhe. He'd lose a lot more than just face. Damn it all.

"Okay, well, I can still get you some," said Gracious, moving right along in a manner that would have been awkward if he'd been at all hurried. "I mean, just because it's illegal doesn't mean he can't take advantage of its general existence."

"It might not be a bad idea," said Skulduggery. "At the very least, there are medical exemptions available. I'm sure 'immunity to all other pain-killers while trying to lead Ireland's magical community' would count as reason enough to get approval from the Health Minister."

Perversely, Erskine felt better. This wasn't the first time they'd broken a law in some fashion, for some kind of need; but he'd been immersed in the politics of things for so long that he'd forgotten how it felt to just go ahead and do it, without thinking through the political ramifications. The surprising part was that it was Skulduggery suggesting they actually attend to the law. "It's worth a look," he said, and didn't hide his relief. "Thanks."

"If his health is that bad why the hell haven't any of you done that earlier?" Bane asked, and Erskine crossed his arms.

"That sounded remarkably close to care, Bane."

"Hey, as long as he's Grand Mage I have a vested interest in him not going nuts. So?"

The Dead Men looked at each other, and once more Erskine was the one who got the most looks. He scowled at the other two. "It's a complicated situation. Before he was on the Council of Elders, Hopeless didn't really need medication. His cottage is far enough out that he could alleviate his symptoms without it. When he became Elder there were some kinds of medication still left to try. And, finally, Hopeless always refused."

"Why?" Gracious asked with vibrant curiosity. He had his pencil and notepad in hand. Erskine shrugged.

"Because everyone else thought it was unhealthy. That's it, really. Sometimes, when he's not looking, his beliefs can start to reflect the majority's. And he spent a long time not looking at drugs as a solution." Erskine had no intention of clarifying why on that, despite the fact that the question was visibly on the tip of Gracious's eager tongue. "I think Saracen's been talking to him about it lately. I'll ask again next time I talk to him."

"Excellent." Skulduggery nodded. "I do enjoy a good plan. Feeling better?"

Erskine took a deep breath and let it out slowly, and shook his head, shoulders slumping. "No. That's really something that's happening? Guild is putting out feelers about telling people Hopeless's magic? Who else knows?"

"Well," said Skulduggery, "Ghastly, for one. Me. Saracen reacted about as well as you did. And now you, and Dexter. So, that leaves Rover, Anton, and Corrival, if we want to include him in that decision."

"Corrival was never the one who made Dead Men decisions," said Erskine. "He just cleaned up the mess, after." He shook his head. "Okay, fine. I won't murder Guild next time I see him. I'll just punch him in the face. Is that everything?"

Bane cleared his throat. "You had a job for us."

"A job?"

"Well, you said it was a favour, but since we are apparently going there with everything, I'm demanding a fee. Or at least enough to cover our expenses."

He really couldn't even argue with that. Erskine laughed shortly. "I guess I can expense that to someone. At first I just wanted you to check up on some people and how receptive they'd be —"

"You said that," said Gracious, pencil poised. "We're gonna need a list. We're not mind-readers."

"I'll give you the list if you're patient for two more minutes," said Erskine irritable. "They should all be in the next few places the Hotel is scheduled to go, so you won't have any problems there unless you miss it heading out. But since you're charging me, I'm adding extra services. There's some inventors and scientists, and a couple of corporate heads, whose names Gordon gave me and with whom I can get you access. I want you to tell them about magic."

"You what," said Bane, and he didn't even sound surprised, just like he wanted to be.

"You're inventors. You're scientists. You build things, and they mostly work, just not in ways you expected. Show off your inventions, Bane. Show them what makes magic worth investing in."

"Sorry," said Gracious, "did you just say you'll _pay_ us to show off to people who might buy our inventions? Or at least pay us to invent more?"

"Is that what I said?" Erskine asked Dexter and Skulduggery.

"That's what it sounded like to me," said Dexter.

"Is this how business works?" Skulduggery wondered out loud. "Talking about money, and throwing it around, and pretending you know exactly what you're doing? That explains a lot."

"See? That is what I said," said Erskine to the Monster Hunters. "Well?"

The Monster Hunters looked at each other. Then, as one, then looked back at Erskine and said in chorus, "Deal."

Then Gracious said quickly, "But you're going to take us to your super-duper magical city first, right?"

Erskine groaned. "For the threat of nuclear annihilation, O'Callaghan, yes, I'm going to take you to my super-duper magical city first.“


	12. Never alone

The Hotel's wards belled with the tone it used when someone opened the garage, and that neatly cut off anything Gracious was about to say. Erskine draped a wet towel over his face and went toward the dining room, and out from the lobby came Rover's perky voice.

"Honey, I'm home!"

"Excuse me," said Dex, "I think this is for me. Ravel, you're blocking the door."

Erskine stepped away, hands raised, and Dexter went to the entrance to the lobby, putting his hands on his hips. "Where have you been? I've been sitting and pining here for hours. How dare you, Larrikin. How dare you leave me hanging."

From over Dexter's shoulder Erskine saw Rover's startled face and red eyes, and then the blinding dawning joy which was still almost too altogether private even for another Dead Man. "Excuse you, wifey. I had things to do. I had people to see. I had ice-cream to deliver."

He skipped forward and draped his arms around Dexter's shoulders, and if the hug was a little more trembling and a little tighter than normal, Erskine wouldn't have known it, because he picked that moment to look away. Just by coincidence.

"I brought presents," he said.

"Are the presents for us or for him?" Donegan asked, thumbing at Rover and Dexter. Gracious was squinting at them, or at least at Dexter's back, since he was solid enough for Rover to hide behind. Almost.

"Jelly," he muttered, and Erskine clapped a hand to his back.

"Cool your ardour, O'Callaghan. Larrikin, nice of you to join us."

"That's what I should be saying to you," said Rover, jabbing at Erskine over Dexter's shoulder. "I haven't seen you in days. It's been a cruel, cruel world. Does this mean we have guests?" Without waiting for a response Rover released Dexter and turned and took a deep breath, and hollered up the stairs: "OY, AODH! WE HAVE GUESTS!"

"I know," said Anton irritably from somewhere on the landing, out of sight. "Don't shout."

"Sorry," said Gracious, wincing and rubbing his ear. "When did Rover become Canadian?"

"Rover's from everywhere, obviously," said Erskine, and Rover whirled again and dragged Dexter into the dining-room with the rest of them. His face was brighter, his eyes still red; but the effect of crying was lessened by the genuineness of his grin.

"There's people back in the Midnight Hotel," he chirped happily, and flung his arms around Erskine as well. "One for you. And one for you, and one for you, and one for you ..." Skulduggery tried hiding behind the Monster Hunters. He needn't have bothered, because as soon as they collected their hugs they turned and, in unison, shoved him forward to accept his fate. "We're all here! Almost. Where's Saracen? The christening's tomorrow!"

... Oh.

Shit.

"Shit," said Erskine succinctly, and Rover whirled on him.

"You're swearing. Why are you swearing, faery prince? We are still having the christening, right? I just came from Ghastly's and Valkyrie didn't say the christening wasn't on!"

Erskine held up his hands. "I may have asked Saracen to do me a favour in the US and we may or may not have forgotten."

"You —" Rover spluttered, and his finger this time was definitely accusing. "You forgot! You forgot the glorious acknowledgement of Valkyrie's sister into this world by Hopeless's God? How dare you!"

"She's already been born, Rover, you'd think that would be acknowledgement enough."

"Hopeless will cry if Saracen's not there," said Rover, and this may not have been accurate, but Hopeless would probably be sad and the thought made Erskine wince.

"I wonder if Fletcher's busy and would mind taking a quick trip to Washington."

"He wouldn't if you paid him," said Skulduggery, straightening his suit and shrugging Rover's arm off his shoulders. "I hear his business, such as it is, has become quite lucrative."

"What, transporting people around the world on a dime?" Dexter asked.

"Oh, he's making much more than that," Skulduggery assured him. "Of course, he's still limited by the bridges and the secrecy laws, such as they currently are, so his clients are mostly the Tír's public servants, but I'm sure he would be perfectly willing to fetch Saracen for you, Erskine, in the name of not making Hopeless cry."

"I hate you all," Erskine muttered, and checked his pocketwatch. "Skulduggery, are you coming with us to the Tír or staying behind?"

"Staying behind," said Skulduggery. "Since you're abandoning him tonight, I think I'd better go make sure Hopeless doesn't get lonely. That, and I can't imagine the state Corrival's house will be in after you've been living in it for six months."

"Hey," Erskine grumbled. "Hopeless cleaned. I helped. Mostly."

Skulduggery chuckled and Dexter's laugh was a bit belated, but sounded genuine, so there was that. The skeleton tipped his hat at the rest of them, including Anton coming down the stairs. "I'll see you tomorrow morning, bright and early."

"Later, dead man." Rover waved and proceeded to glom onto Dexter instead. "So what's for dinner, Aodh? Is it good? Is it soon?"

"Aren't you stuffed full of ice-creams?" Erskine demanded, and Rover blew a raspberry.

"Says you. Ice-creams don't fill you up. That's why you can eat as much of them as you like."

"There is no dinner," said Anton, fixing Rover with a glare, "because someone ruined my stew."

Rover hesitated. "I'm pretty sure I didn't do anything to the stew ..."

"But you may have done something in the kitchen?"

"Well ..." Rover coughed. "I may have been playing Soapsud Slalom with the mop and the bucket this morning and I may have lost track of where the soap-bar went ..."

Gracious and Donegan's dual faces of stricken disgust did a lot to alleviate Erskine's revulsion. He laughed, at least partly in relief that Anton had not, in fact, gone so far as to be incapable of cooking anymore, and clapped Anton on the shoulder, ignoring the whole-body twitch it invoked. Probably Erskine almost got punched. It was fine; that happened a lot. "Come on," he said, grinning. "I want something to eat before I have to go talk to the governor. If we all help, we can come up with something that won't take forever to make. Steaks? Maybe steaks? Surely you've got some steaks, Shudder?"

Anton sighed a very long-suffering sigh, and it wasn't quite as fake as it might have been six months ago, and much longer. If heaving long sighs was what it took to keep himself calm, Erskine could handle it. Maybe. Probably. It was a bit annoying.

"I have some meat cuts," he said grudgingly, shaking Erskine's hand off his shoulder. "Very well. Bane, O'Callaghan, neither of you are getting near the stove, and you're going to prevent Larrikin from getting near it either."

"Er," said Gracious.

"You want us to leash him?" Donegan looked at Rover, looking sheepish with arms around Dexter's shoulders. Dexter, Erskine noted, did not seem too bothered by this. "Dexter seems to have things well in hand?"

It was almost a question, and Dexter almost looked surprised. "I do?" He looked thoughtful, and abruptly Rover squeaked and jumped, his eyes widening with surprise and incredulity. Dexter nodded. "Yep. I do."

Erskine held up his hands and pivoted on his heel away from them, and went back toward the kitchen. "I know nothing, I don't want to know anything. What do we need for meals, anyway? Dishes, cutlery?"

"Dishes need to be washed as they're dirtied," said Anton, proceeding ahead of them, and three different groans sounded in the kitchen, Erskine's included.

"More dishes?" Gracious said plaintively.

"Well, unless you can pry Dexter's hands off Larrikin, O'Callaghan ..."

".... Yeah, I'm going nowhere near there," said Gracious, and when Erskine turned his head just slightly he saw Gracious's face going red. That told Erskine he really, really didn't want to look into the dining-room right now. "Fine. Dishes it is. Then we eat and get to see your super-duper magic city, right?"

"It'll be late there," Erskine warned, opening one of the cupboards he'd just finished packing an hour ago, and pulling down a stack of dishes while Anton went to the fridge and the stove. "They've five hours ahead. There'll be time in the morning."

"You're going out," Gracious objected.

"I'm going to talk to the governor about the potential impending nuclear annihilation of Dublin, O'Callaghan, that's classified an emergency."

Donegan put his hands on his hips and looking around. "I have a question," he said. "If we're heading to a city, why can't we go to a restaurant there? Why cook something here? Are you so cheap that you'd refuse to pay for a nice dinner with a view, Ravel?"

"Yes," said Erskine immediately. "I'm already going to be paying the two of you for services rendered. I'm not paying for dinner." Anton grunted. "I'm not paying for an expensive dinner at one of the Tír's non-Hotel restaurants."

And, he added silently, us going out for dinner would offend Anton's sensibilities. It would be good for him to get to make something for the rest of them — actually make something, instead of whatever's been happening at the Hotel without paying guests.

"But the dishes," Gracious whined, and Erskine picked up the same towel he'd put over his face earlier and threw it at him.

"Get to it."

They got to it. It wasn't the same as the Dead Men, but the Monster Hunters had always fit in well with them, or at least had before Bane started getting dainty. This seemed more like those times previously, and Erskine relaxed by degrees. Maybe this meant Bane was going to stop being a jackass.

Rover and Dexter came in after a while, with Dexter's arm slung over Rover's shoulder and Rover's face flushed, and wearing a remarkably stupid grin, even for him. Gracious promptly flung a sponge in his face, 'to cool him off', and Erskine didn't quite kill himself laughing.

Not the same, but better than it had been the last six months. They'd seen worse.

By the time Erskine got out of the Hotel it was late in the Tír; not midnight yet but approaching it. The sky, as always, was vivid and huge overheard, and the air was fresh and tinged with salt, even from the Fiddler's Green. Erskine took a deep breath and wondered, again, at the feeling of being home, and made his way toward the Central Tower. Only a few night-owls were around at this time, and it was calming being able to walk around without getting a double-take — though that had been happening less and less lately. Familiarity didn't breed contempt. Just familiarity.

The first circle was empty and the arcade nearly so, aside from a handful of janitors or late-shift hospital workers and precinct officers. A few of the restaurants stayed open late, or opened extremely early, for the sake of those whose services didn't end with the day; and Erskine ignored the one or two glances he did get in favour of going to the elevators.

The governor's office wasn't open, probably. They took their work hours seriously, unlike other governments; but in case of emergency, there were ways to get in and see someone. Was it bad that Erskine expected to be able to see Adaeze at this time of night? Maybe. Probably. He didn't like the sinking, sneaking suspicion he was over-using his authority. When things kept happening in Ireland, what else could he do? He'd texted Hopeless to let him know he was going to talk to Adaeze. Hopefully it wouldn't do anything bad for their international relations.

Upstairs the offices were mostly dark, but there was a small staff on, just in case; and Erskine hadn't had anything to do with that. Khutulun had been the one to suggest that, given recent difficulties, it would be wise to have someone on staff overnight. Next time Sanguine showed up, he might not be cavalier enough to wreak his havoc during the day.

In this case it meant that when Erskine came to the central offices where the city was governed, the lights were on and he could hear voices murmuring, and he tapped the bell on the desk with a bit of air so it chimed. The person who emerged from further past the desk made Erskine's heart hammer.

"Officer Owens," he said, not quite managing to keep the surprise out of his tone, but he at least managed the smile. "Good to see you again."

The sound of her name made her unfreeze, and she visibly shook herself, and didn't smile. She looked like she meant to; it just didn't happen. "Prince Ravel."

Erskine winced. "Just Erskine. Or Mr Ravel, if you really need a title."

"Yeah," Alice muttered, and took a deep breath, and eased her grip on the butt of the pistol at her hip. "How can I help you?"

"Is the governor still up?" Erskine asked, putting all the apology he could into his voice.

"What's happened in Dublin?"

Where to start, Erskine thought and didn't say. "Paul Lynch was murdered today. He was having visions of Dublin getting bombed." Nuclear weapons must surely, at some point, start being privileged information. "Hopeless is probably doing up something official now, maybe with Bliss, but we wanted to give the governor some forewarning and a formal, if in-person, request for help and information."

Alice absorbed that, and the grimace was visible. Erskine didn't know if she'd ever seen Dublin, but the bridge guards were usually from the relevant districts, which meant Alice, herself, stood a good chance of being Irish. "How badly bombed?"

"Wiped off the map," said Erskine succinctly, "along with a good portion of Ireland."

"I'll go see if she's available." Alice turned and went back inside, and Erskine tapped the counter and then went to sit. It'd been a long time since he'd had to wait to be seen, at least here. He was used to having to wait to be seen pretty much everywhere else. He didn't like it, and didn't like that he didn't like it. He wasn't entitled to their immediate attention.

Still felt weird. He was wishing he had a cat's cradle to play with, and had resorted to snapping a flame onto the tips of each finger consecutively by the time Alice came back out. He rose as she said, "The governor said she'd see you, but I'll have to come up with."

"That's fine," said Erskine. It'd been a long, long time since he'd seen the governor's rooms. For one thing, there hadn't been any, officially, when he'd held the post, so the tower's quarters were all new to him. Alice led him to an inconspicuous wall with a sigil-pad in it, and the wall opened to show a private elevator up. Probably it was locked, since Alice had to pass her dkey over the pad before they ascended.

Erskine hesitated, for a moment contemplated waiting in silence; but the silence was awkward, and he'd always hated it, and before he could think better he asked softly, "How have you been doing?"

He felt, more than saw, Alice go tense beside him.

"Fine," she said neutrally, and Erskine let out a short laugh which he cut off when Alice went tenser.

Erskine reached out to touch the stop sigil, and didn't at all look toward her. "For what it's worth," he said, "I'm the one person you don't need to lie to." Except Hopeless, but he didn't count. "I spent the better part of a week Infected."

"It only takes three days to become a vampire," said Alice.

"It wasn't all consecutive," said Erskine, his tone blessedly calm. Here, at least, where it was quiet and he hadn't just seen Alice snarling at the bars of a cage trying to get the prisoner within, he can pretend at being collected. "It was during the war. They used it as a torture tool. They Infected and then healed me, and they did it over and over. Even after I told them everything, they did it. The worst part —" His voice stumbled then, because he hadn't meant to add this part, but it was already coming out, damn his burning eyes and the way his voice turned hoarse. "The worst part was that they would put prisoners in the cell with me, while I was human. So I would get to know them. Then, when I'd been Infected, I'd kill them. And I remembered what I did when I was cured."

There as a long moment of silence between them, with just the heavy breathing of broken people trying not to break more, and the low hum of the sigils. This many, this close, they made a sound a bit like electricity. Power was audible no matter what form it came in.

Alice wasn't saying anything, but Erskine's voice felt steadier and his eyes didn't seem about to cry even if the burn wasn't totally gone, so he broke the silence again. "You don't have to tell me anything now. I've got an appointment. But — if you need someone to talk to ... someone who would understand ... you know how to get my number."

She didn't say anything some more, but Erskine took his hand off the sigil and they started moving again. The silence didn't last long, but Erskine was still humming idly in it, for lack of any other sound; and as the elevator dinged at the top, just before the door opened, Alice said quietly: "Thanks."

"Of course," said Erskine quietly, and then the doors were open and he exited, covering the drag of memories with a lift of his chin and the firmness of his stride.


	13. Friends in high places

The governor's wing of the tower was in the centre but high enough that the tower was narrowed. Probably there were places where the wing didn't touch the outside walls, for protection. It meant Erskine disembarked into a dark room which brightened with movement, and opposite was the window looking over the long shaft leading down the middle of the tower. When Erskine looked down it, it vanished into darkness; when he looked up, he saw the shine of glass skylight, and the fuzzy ribbon of galaxy. It wasn't the Milky Way. Or it wasn't the Milky Way as they saw it, anyway. Alice followed Erskine into the room to stand guard by the elevator.

The door on the end opened and Erskine turned, and bowed at the figure in the entrance. Adaeze wasn't wearing a suit, tonight; he couldn't tell if she'd been to bed, either, but she was in a dressing-gown, with her hair long and twisting down her back, as simply lovely as she was dressed up, with the addition of some softness. "Thank you for taking the time at this late hour, Governor."

"I would say 'any time for you'," she said with a very small smile, "but I fear you would take me up on that."

Erskine grimaced as he moved to join her in the cluster of armchairs nearer to that door. "I'm sorry. I know we've got the Tír caught up in a lot of things lately. I wish things could be different."

"It's a frustration," said Adaeze, "but I think a good experience, ultimately. The Tír has been apart from the rest of the world for a long time. It might have bred some assumptions in us as well as you, that we should forever remain apart. I appreciated that Hopeless was willing to send an ambassador and monetary recompense, last year."

"Good. I'm glad." It eased something Erskine hadn't even realised was tense. "Have you been making plans for correcting those assumptions?"

Adaeze sat in the armchair and gazed toward the window. They were near enough to touch; it was a cozy little circle, not a stand-offish one. That was a relief too. After a moment she nodded, and looked back at him. "Erskine. I want to ask you for the list of names."

Erskine blinked. "Which list?"

"All of them," said Adaeze. "All the people to whom you've spoken, or to whom you plan to speak. Many of them have made contact with our people in other nations — but many of them have done so only because you approached them first, or because someone else you approached did so on your behalf. It is past time, I think, to stop relying on you to send people our way."

There as a long moment when he couldn't answer. Part of that was to restrain a laugh. Hadn't he just been talking about that with the Monster Hunters? Hadn't he asked Saracen to go scout the White House of all places? He visited the halfway house in Dublin regularly, just to see how they were doing and who might have come visit. Somehow, somehow, it had never occurred to him that all this was something they might need to know about.

"You're right," he said, and it was one of the hardest things he'd ever done. "I've been trying to liaise with people for so long that I —" He what? This time it was his turn to look away, and Adaeze waited patiently. "I didn't want to be the kind of founder who would keep coming back expecting special treatment," he said finally. "I've never wanted to be the ultimate ruler over the city. But somehow ... I didn't put it together that maybe I should be letting the city reach out on its own merit." He looked back, and smiled ruefully. "I'm sorry. Again."

"I understand," said Adaeze, "and in your defence, we've never before stopped you. I'm not sure it's occurred to any of us that we had a right to ask for those names, to approach them ourselves." She smiled at him and it was a small smile, rather tired. "I think it was easier for a lot of us to be protected, instead of protecting ourselves. But those times are changing, aren't they? Your enemies know where we are, and how to get here. We need to protect ourselves. The best way to do that is have our own ambassadors."

"Is that what Paul Lynch was doing?" Erskine asked.

"I'm not sure," said Adaeze. "The name is familiar, but I don't recall his position offhand. In the last six months we've been trialling groups of people to go through the bridges only to those places where the bridges emerge, and investigate on their own merit. We haven't yet tendered any orders to actually tell the truth — simply discern how well we might be able to do so. It's possible Paul Lynch was one of those agents. Was he a faery?"

"Yes," said Erskine. "He was a Sensitive who used to live in Dublin."

Adaeze nodded. "That might be why. The project plan intended the first group of agents to be those who already knew the cities in the vicinity of the bridges. A Sensitive is more equipped to know when something might go wrong."

"Except that Paul's Sensitivity involved having intense visions of probable armageddons. It's not useful on the short-term and the small-scale."

Adaeze frowned. "I'd have to ask someone to look it up for you. It's possible he was chosen just for his familiarity with Dublin, rather than anything to do with his magic. Did he call the Sanctuary for help?"

"He was murdered earlier today," said Erskine, and Adaeze went very still. "We think by a warlock." Dexter had seen fit to fill him in that much. "Then the halfway house was burned down — definitely arson. Hopeless will be contacting you about that tomorrow, probably, to let you know how the Sanctuary intends to help."

"And the Taoiseach?"

Erskine shrugged. "I don't know yet. I think that's why Hopeless is waiting til tomorrow to let you know — he probably wants to talk to Fionn to see what they can do together."

"I would like to meet the Taoiseach," said Adaeze. "Perhaps his can be the first name from your list."

"I'll let Hopeless know," said Erskine, biting back impatience. This was not the time. "Believe me, Governor, we are very concerned about working with you, not over. If someone is targeting the halfway houses, it means they're targeting you."

"I agree," said Adaeze. "I think it would be best to get the other agents to check in as soon as possible to see whether they, also, have been targeted. If at the same time we can call upon any contacts you've already made in the same vicinity, that would strengthen our position."

It would. Erskine can see the logic in it, like he can see the logic in her wanting to see the Taoiseach. But suddenly Erskine was aware of a feeling like events were slipping away from him, and had to take a deep breath and press his hands together between his knees, and resist the urge to start playing with fire again. He won't be that founder. He said he wouldn't.

He just had somehow thought the hard part would be over once more people knew.

"There's something else. Paul Lynch was having a vision of an impending armageddon. He was seeing Dublin vanishing in a nuclear explosion."

Behind them, Alice made a noise and quieted herself, and even Adaeze looked startled and then horrified before she was able to close her expression down. "You said he saw probable futures only, correct?"

"Yes," said Erskine. "He wasn't a Sensitive whose powers saw absolutes. His visions don't show what will be, only what, at this point in time, is likely to be. Leaving aside the implication that a mortal government is going to start getting stupid, the fact that he saw a nuclear explosion over something else tells us that it's likely to happen soon."

Adaeze frowned. "What do you mean? Over something else?"

"There's another Sensitive in Dublin, Finbar Wrong," Erskine explained. "He does see absolutes, and not always in vague terms like other Sensitives do. He saw that Mevolent has returned." He could not quite keep the crack out of his voice at the name, even if he managed to keep the rest of the words even. "Finbar doesn't see things that don't come true in some way. If he says Mevolent is back, Mevolent is back. He might have been back for a while; we don't know. But if Paul Lynch was seeing nuclear annihilation over whatever Mevolent is planning, then the bombing of Dublin is imminent."

"I understand," said Adaeze, holding his gaze evenly, though her dark-brown skin looked a bit greyer now, even with the light. "And given that we've recently rolled out our agents, they may inadvertently have something to do with it. You're right — this could not wait for Hopeless and the Taoiseach's official offer of aid tomorrow." She rose and moved toward a panel of sigils on the wall, ones which made a screen when she touched them. One of the voices from downstairs answered. "Wake Khutulun," she said. "Tell her that Department X may have hit a lethal snag. Have her bring up files on all the agents and prepare to brief their handlers."

She turned toward Erskine, smoothing down her dressing-gown in a motion that might have been absent, or might have been anxious. "Our agents are meant to check in at least every two days," she explained. "We'll be able to see whether Paul was due to check in today or tomorrow."

"If tomorrow, someone might have timed things well," said Erskine.

"In which case, they already know how processes. I'd like to confirm whether that's the case as soon as possible."

"Agreed." Erskine got to his feet and reached into the inside pocket of his jacket for a book, the book that Gordon had given him and into which he'd written his own names; people from long before he convinced Gordon into helping, people he'd struck out as those who had denied truth. The names inside were both faery and mortal, from all over the world, in many different walks of life. He's spoken to a lot of them over the past decades, and even more in the last few years, when emergencies hadn't pulled him back to Ireland.

It had been like a talisman for the last few years, this book. Before it, Erskine had kept names in his head. Writing them down made them realer; writing down his thoughts on their reactions, or their circumstances, had made them realer still. He looked down at it for a long moment and then looked up, and gave Adaeze a rather weak smile.

"The Hotel will be in the Tír until morning," he said, "so we can collect the Edgleys for an event in Dublin. D'you think I could have it back by then?"

"I'll guarantee it," said Adaeze, and Erskine gave her the book. He felt a bit like he'd just given over his child to a total stranger, even though Adaeze wasn't.

"Some things in there might not make sense," he said. "I hadn't really thought anyone would see it. But there's thoughts in there — about how and when, and methods some people might be more receptive to. I think Hopeless added a few notes as well. They'll all be useful."

He was most certainly babbling, and it took effort to close his mouth. Adaeze opened the book to glance over the pages, leafing through one by one before looking up. "If it's a journal —"

"It's fine," Erskine interrupted before she could try and give it back. "It's fine, really. I'd just have to go through and pull all the names out, and figure out a way to collect all the notes, and — it's easier this way, trust me."

She studied him for a good long moment, in a way he still wasn't quite accustomed to being studied; or at least in a way that still made him feel extraordinarily restless when it was anyone other than Hopeless. "Thank you," said Adaeze at last, and softly. "I do appreciate your efforts to be mindful of what the city has become. Please don't think that means you no longer have a right to us, Erskine. You are our founder. You are our prince. You are —" This was added more firmly, at Erskine's grimace. "If you refuse to accept a position of leadership in the city, at least allow us to remember our roots and the gift you've given in some small fashion. We know we can always rely on you. You will have this back in your hands tomorrow. And, after we've determined the source of Paul's visions, we can determine who to approach together."

Erskine really didn't know what she meant by saying all that. Mostly, it just made him feel small. But he managed to summon a smile from somewhere. "Good. In fact, there's a couple of people in the Hotel who'd be good for that. I've already asked them to talk to some people, so if you're open to them staying, I'll ask them to coordinate with whoever's in charge of the new program. They're the Monster Hunters, you might have heard of them."

Adaeze's face flickered with the kind of startled, wondering delight Erskine had previously seen on people's faces when they realised his identity. "I have their books," she said with a smile. "You borrowed some of their blueprints for some of the Tír's technology, didn't you?"

"I did," Erskine admitted, "and I shudder to think how they're going to react and how much in the way of royalties they're going to want when they find out — I didn't think some of those things through." He hadn't, in some fashions, truly believed what the Tír would become. "I'm sure we can figure something out. That's why I think they'll be good to talk to some specific people. They're businessmen, and they're scientists. They'll be able to sell magic better than I could."

"I'd be delighted to have their help," said Adaeze, and for a moment seemed very nearly girlish in her delighted smile. The welling warmth and affection was unexpected, and it made Erskine's laugh more genuine than he thought possible given this conversation.

"Great. I'll let them know. I also had Saracen trying to figure out ways into the White House, but there's an event on tomorrow we're bringing him back for, so time willing I'll drag him back here and have him turn over his notes."

"Thank you," said Adaeze, and the elevator chimed. Erskine checked his pocketwatch.

"I think that's my cue."

"Prince Ravel." Adaeze put a hand on his arm and Erskine managed to change the flinch into a turn toward her. "Please stay. I would like your insight." She smiled slightly, rueful. "It was, perhaps, foolish to want to hide the project from you."

"I don't think it's foolish," said Erskine honestly, and a bit grimly, thinking of Bane's reaction to everything they've been doing. "I was — thoroughly reminded — just this afternoon at how much we Dead Men can run roughshod over other people."

"Perhaps," said Adaeze, "and perhaps for good reason. But for now, please join me. In the morning, you can report to Hopeless, and then we will know where we stand, as allies."

Erskine exhaled as Alice unlocked the lift and summoned it up, and then nodded. "Okay.“


	14. Craven

“Is it done?” Craven asked Quiver, just barely leashing the glee in his tone before remembering that, of course, as High Priest, he didn’t have to. His time was now. Wreath’s supports were scattered like rats, his closest confidantes — but one — imprisoned. Life was, currently, very good.

“It is done, High Priest,” said Quiver, and if there was a note in his tone that maybe suggested disapproval, Craven chose to ignore it. Quiver had been a support, yes, and Craven would keep an eye on him — but Quiver knew too much about the Temple to simply throw over for something as simple as an implication of disapproval in his tone.

Still. Keep your enemies closer, and so forth.

“Excellent,” said Craven, and let his smile stretch wide, and Quiver matched his pace as Craven went to his secret workshop — no longer secret, oh no; no longer something belonging to the temerity of a senior cleric, but the accomplishments of a high priest bared for all to see.

Now it was better lit, and filled with acolytes and junior clerics to do Craven’s bidding and observe his achievements; it looked like an inner sanctum _should_ , finally, with all Craven’s priests appropriately robed and hooded.

But not all that much warmer, honestly. Let Wreath suffer a little more in the cold. He couldn’t even muster the courtesy to _pretend_ he wasn’t breaking the rules. Craven would say ‘now he’ll learn’, but he didn’t intend for Wreath to live past today, so the point was irrelevant.

Wreath himself lay on the table where Melancholia had once been — still unconscious, from the look of things, which was both an annoyance that he wouldn’t witness Craven’s entry and something of a relief, because it meant that Craven could examine him without being distracted by his smart mouth.

He was nude aside from restraints, with all the bindings on display, and the very first thing Craven did was make sure they are _all_ just as he thought they were, matching them to the plans he had put together using Melancholia as his puppet.

Some minor adjustments were necessary, but that was to be expected, and in no way undermined what Craven was accomplishing here.

“Turn him over,” Craven ordered a couple of the acolytes, and both of them chose to exchange looks before obeying. Not even the spike of annoyance could really surpass Craven’s satisfaction. “Do it! I need to see the rest of the bindings on his back.”

They did it, finally, and Craven basked in the fact of having helpers, and not having to _hide_ all this, even from members of his own Temple who think they know better.

Wreath startled awake sometime in the turning, with a small grunt of groggy awareness, and quickly Craven motioned them to restore the purely physical bindings on his hands and feet, and across his neck.

“Hm—?”

“Good morning, Cleric Wreath,” said Craven, letting all his victory be heard in his tone, and Wreath went still, turning his head a little more against the table as if to listen better. Craven hadn’t bothered to put down a pillow.

Maybe he should have. This body was soon to be the vessel of the Death Bringer, after all, and Craven didn’t intend to damage it before then.

Well, Wreath could suffer some discomfort.

“I’m sure you’re wondering what’s happening,” Craven continued, and smiled at Wreath, even though he couldn’t very well see it. It was a disappointment, but Craven was not the sort to let disappointments stop him.

“I appear to be tied to a table,” said Wreath, very clinically, “quite naked, in fact. Dear me, Craven, I knew you wanted me for my body but I never dreamed …”

Someone snickered somewhere in the row of helpful acolytes and clerics. Craven flushed and brought his hand down sharply on the edge of the table, and revelled in Wreath’s flinch at the crack of sound.

“Be silent. You’re not in a position to be smart-mouthed, Wreath.”

“On the contrary,” said Wreath tightly, “that seems to be the only part of me you haven’t bound, so I’d say this is the _perfect_ time to be smart-mouthed.”

“You’re about to die,” Craven informed him, which was earlier than he’d written in his notes, but it seemed appropriate, and Craven wasn’t about to regret anything which made Wreath shut up in a hurry.

It did give Wreath a bit of pause, and then, aggravatingly, he sighed. “You’re about to do something unconscionably stupid, aren’t you?”

“I,” said Craven, with as much dignity and righteousness as he possessed, “am about to fulfil the Temple’s ultimate goal, the unleashing of the Death Bringer upon the world.”

“There it is,” Wreath muttered, and that snicker came again from the line of robed figures against the wall. Craven glared into them, wishing he hadn’t specified they should leave their hoods up. Now he couldn’t see who was laughing.

Even bound naked to a table, Wreath couldn’t seem to stop himself from making Craven look bad. But he would pay — oh, yes, he’d pay. Craven would even like it if he begged, before the end.

He pasted the smile back on his face, since Wreath couldn’t see that it was flimsy anyway.

“Hold still, Wreath,” he said pleasantly. “This will no doubt be painful for you, and rest assured I will enjoy every minute.”

“Naturally.”

“And,” Craven went on, ignoring that mumble against the table, “in case you think rescue might be pending from your supporters, I’d like you to know that we, the loyal ones, are even now in the process of rooting out everyone who has ever shown support for you, offered you favours, or indeed in any way displayed any faith in you as a saviour. Now, let us begin.”

Wreath, annoyingly, sighed, and didn’t try to move or otherwise escape or resist, or anything any decent terrified prisoner should. Nevertheless, Craven reached for the stylus that will let him change the bindings marked into Wreath’s skin, and bent over him to start with his neck.


	15. The homecoming

When Valkyrie woke up, she didn't bother laying around like she did sometimes. Only sometimes. Today, she leapt right out of bed before even checking the clock. It was light outside so the sun had risen, or almost, and that was close enough. Five years ago she would've never thought she'd be a morning person, but here she was.

She scrambled into some sweats Ghastly made (grudgingly; it was after she asked for the jeans, and apparently these were the least offensive option), because she just didn't bother to buy things from the department store anymore. They weren't the clothes she'd be wearing for the christening later; those were things Ghastly would be bringing from his shop to Corrival's later in the day. She didn't shower, either. Most things would be happening at Corrival's.

Valkyrie went downstairs and Mum was already in the living-room on the couch, looking tired but giving Valkyrie a smile.

"Have you eaten?" Valkyrie asked, voice hushed because of the tiny unmoving body on her mum's shoulder. "Has she eaten? Is she okay? Is she asleep? Should I stop talking?" She added with her fingers, 'Should I sign instead?'

'No, yes, yes, yes, and yes,' Mum answered with one hand, using the signals the Dead Men had taught them. One of Valkyrie's mortal, perfectly ordinary classmates was deaf and had been surprised to have a random class-mate talking to her, but thanks to some conversations Valkyrie now knew that the signs the Dead Men knew weren't the same as Irish Sign Language. They were built for battle, so a lot of them were one-handed, and because the Dead Men just couldn't help themselves with the banter, a lot of them were innocuous words that had no place in a battle really.

'Is there anything you want to eat?' Valkyrie asked, and went to the kitchen, where the couch was a straight line through the door and she could see Mum's answer if she looked.

'Eggs,' said Mum immediately. 'Eggs and anchovies. I want salt.'

'You're getting them scrambled.' Valkyrie made a face once her back was turned but went to get the anchovies along with the eggs, and by the time her dad came in through the door the eggs were cooking and Valkyrie was making faces at the anchovies instead.

He tiptoed quietly past the kitchen and Valkyrie saw him sign, 'Is everything okay? Is Val making your breakfast? Is she still asleep?'

'Yes, yes, and yes,' Mum signed back, looking very amused. The body on her shoulder stirred and made a noise and all three of them froze, and then she settled without waking. Valkyrie let out a sigh of relief.

'When we get to Corrival's I'm going to stick spiders down Skulduggery's shirt,' she signed, since Mum was looking her way. 'No one warned me about this. No one said that we didn't sleep unless she did. Why didn't anyone tell me this?'

'We have been through this once before, you know,' answered Mum, still looking very amused.

'I haven't!' Valkyrie gestured wildly. 'Where was I when this happened?!' Dad laughed and covered his mouth so it wouldn't be so loud, and Mum grinned, and said nothing. Valkyrie scowled. 'Shut up.'

She finished cooking the scrambled eggs, scraping out a portion for herself before plonking in some anchovies for Mum, and when she came out with two plates Dad was cooing over Mum's shoulder and Mum was rolling her eyes, but smiling. She beckoned for her plate. Valkyrie still thought it was dangerous to have her little sister just resting on Mum's shoulder like that, without even a hand to support her, but when Alison didn't slide off she sat down herself, still watching, and tried not to miss her food-laden fork from reaching her mouth.

'Are we all prepared?' she asked as soon as she had her mouth full and her hands free. 'We're going to have help setting up the house, right?'

'I've just come from Corrival's,' Dad answered, moving around the side of the couch so Mum could see. 'The Sanctuary janitors have things well in hand. I considered staying there and shouting some orders, but the knowledge that they would have been obligated to ignore me made me decide I was better off here.'

'Are they getting paid for this?' Valkyrie wondered between shovelling food into her mouth, and Mum shook her head, since she was still holding her plate. 'They donated their time?' Mum nodded. 'That's nice of them.'

'I think they're eager for Melissa to go back to work,' said Dad. 'I think I might have to complain to Hopeless, that people keep trying to steal my wife away for business.'

'There's nothing wrong with Tipstaff,' Valkyrie signed back forcefully. 'They just don't like that he doesn't let them get away with the same things. Wait til they find out he's staying on.'

Tipstaff was an old friend of Hopeless's, which was an odd thought. Valkyrie hadn't been sure Hopeless had any friends outside the Dead Men, but he did, and Tipstaff was one, and Hopeless had hired him as Administrator when Mum when on maternity leave. Valkyrie didn't know who was going to stay Administrator and who was going to be Hopeless's personal assistant, but with the things that were happening lately everyone, even Guild, agreed that Hopeless needed someone close at hand who wouldn't have to leave for some emergency elsewhere in the Sanctuary.

'Is there anything else we need to pack?' Valkyrie asked Dad, and he nodded, so she took her plate and Mum's into the kitchen and gave them a quick wash, and then set to helping her father.

The initial stages of the morning passed like that, making sure they had everything they needed. Corrival's wasn't far, but he'd basically given them free rein to stay there as long as they needed, and since Uncle Fergus and the others were coming over they'd decided to make something of a week of it — although that hadn't included Valkyrie being able to skip school.

It turned out that babies needed a lot of stuff. So much stuff that when Valkyrie looked at it she panicked a little, thinking back on how her room had been before the Faceless Ones. These days she didn't have a lot, but what she did have was either useful or more important. These days, having a lot of stuff looked like a fire hazard. Or a tripping hazard. Or a choking hazard.

Babies were so _tiny_. Every single second Valkyrie thought about her sister and her tiny body and tiny head and tiny feet and how she couldn't even sit up by herself, Valkyrie's heart beat fast with panic.

They wound up being able to head to Corrival's before mid-morning, which was good time, mostly due to the fact that Mum had been the only one woken by Alison's wailing before dawn. Someone, Valkyrie didn't know who, even though it was probably Hopeless or Anton, had thought to put some sigils on a sign in front of each of their bedrooms, so the sound wouldn't carry except to whoever left theirs off. It just meant they had to make sure someone wasn't soundproofing, and in the meantime the rest of the house got some sleep.

Some nights Valkyrie lay awake with her heart pounding and wondering whether Alison was screaming and she couldn't hear it, and her fingers itched to take off the sigil since she wasn't sleeping anyway. Hopeless had assured her this was a perfectly natural fear and that she would adjust as time went on, provided she actually let herself adjust to it. There had also been some stuff in there about past trauma and control issues, but Valkyrie was doing pretty well with those since the Golf Club Massacre and didn't think about them too deeply on this occasion.

At first, the christening had been a bit of a pickle. The Edgleys didn't have many family members left to invite, and those who didn't know about magic had refused. That meant everyone attending knew about magic, but if they went to a mortal church they wouldn't be able to talk freely. Mum and Dad had gone back and forth about this for a solid month before Hopeless had cleared his throat and reminded them, dryly arch, that he had, in fact, been a monk and was, in fact, still legally empowered to perform such ceremonies. After that they just needed a venue, and since Corrival's Dublin house had been sitting empty for a few years, it had been volunteered.

It was going to be a purely magical service, which was hilarious on multiple levels. Valkyrie couldn't wait to see Hopeless all done up, either. She saw him in the Grand Mage's robes all the time, but that was different to a clergyman's robes.

When they got to the house there were only Sanctuary cars there, and Valkyrie got out of the car and loaded herself down with baby stuff and went inside. One of the Sanctuary's Elemental janitors was just finishing up mopping the front hall, and Valkyrie waved.

"Hey, John. Is everything nearly done?"

"Just about," said John Doe, looking across the floor and nodding with satisfaction. Valkyrie had once asked why he picked that name. The only answer she'd gotten was a mumbled 'Not looking to be a hero'. Valkyrie decided not to touch it. If Hopeless wanted to go there, that was his call. "My mum's in Dublin this week. She's green with envy."

Valkyrie grinned. "Isn't everyone? You know, I'm pretty sure no one would care if you stuck around for a bit. There's bound to be lunch left over, we're getting it catered."

Anton had wanted to cook, but that meant he would have had to look after the food, and Mum had vetoed that. They were all meant to be at the service, not setting up for after, she'd said.

John recoiled a little, his face going red as he shook his head. "I'm fine. I need to get this lot back to the Sanctuary, anyway."

"Too bad. Thanks for coming out," said Valkyrie, and meant it. John was one of the more decent sorcerers around. Not a lot of sorcerers liked to talk about menial jobs, or the idea that sorcerers might actually have to fill them. It was a stark contrast to the Tír, where menial jobs weren't seen as menial, and ferryhands wore their status like badges of pride. If John lived there, would he have helped them whip up a storm a couple of years ago?

Sometimes Valkyrie knew when not to ask. She waved to John and headed upstairs to the rooms designated as a nursery, very close-by to where her parents would be sleeping and right next-door to where Valkyrie would be. Everyone else was going to be put a bit further away, even with the soundproofing sigils. Some of the things Dad brought over were dumped in the middle of the floor, so Valkyrie sorted through them and put them in the right bedrooms, and when she came down again Mum was carrying Alison inside, asleep in her car-chair, and the Sanctuary cars were pulling out.

"When are the others going to arrive?" Valkyrie asked Dad, who stood outside waving at them. He checked his watch.

"Well, Anton's bringing them," he said, "so they probably won't be late. It's a bit of a drive, isn't it, from the Hotel?"

"It isn’t these days, but they're stopping off at Gordon's to pick him up, aren't they?" Valkyrie picked up a couple more bags. "I'll be upstairs playing with Alison."

"Ah, yes," Dad said in tones of realisation. "Gordon."

Valkyrie groaned. "We do have someone getting Gordon, right? I'll never hear the end of it if we forget him."

"That would be me," said Dad cheerfully, and kissed the top of her head. "Don't get Alison in trouble. We don't want her taking after you, after all. At least, not until she's able to walk."

Valkyrie blew a raspberry after him as he went to the car. The mansion wasn't all that far, kind of. Maybe. Hopefully. He was probably going to be late — they should have asked Anton, but Anton already had a dozen people to corral.

She took the bags upstairs and took over from Mum taking care of Alison, who was awake now and looking around with wide eyes and a fist in her mouth. Valkyrie cooed at her for a good half-hour before she heard the door slamming open from downstairs, and Rover's voice ringing out.

"The fun has arriiiiiiiiiiiiived~"

Oh, good, he was still saying that stupid thing. Valkyrie thought he'd stopped after he walked in on the Remnants. She picked up Alison and held her on her hip while she went to the balcony to look down over the entrance.

"Idiot," she said, amused, covering Alison's ears. Alison squirmed. Rover pointed.

"No saying bad words in front of the baby! I knew you were a bad influence, Val! You're a bad, bad influence!"

Valkyrie laughed and Alison gurgled happily, and she went to meet them at the bottom of the stairs. The car outside wasn't the orange monstrosity, but one of Anton's four-wheelers, with enough seats for a family. Which was just as well, because a family was what he'd brought.

"Stephanie!" Carol squealed, dropping her suitcase the rest of the way to putting it down, and Valkyrie met her in the middle with a hug. It was unexpected, but kind of nice, and Valkyrie didn't try to stop the grin she was wearing as she pulled back.

"Hi! How are you? You look great."

She did. Last time Valkyrie saw Carol, she hadn't even recognised her, she looked that good — all curves and curls, and bright shining eyes. The twins had never looked like that when they were younger.

"Thanks, so do you!" Carol beamed, and held out a finger to Alison. "Is this my new cousin? Hi, new cousin." Alison took her finger, the way babies are obligated to do, and they spent a minute cooing over her transfixed confused-face before someone behind Carol cleared his throat and they pulled apart. Standing behind them was a tall black man narrow enough to be a scholar or just hiding muscle under his shirt, and looking amused. He also looked familiar.

"Oh, yeah," said Carol, grinning blushingly. It was a weird expression. Valkyrie had seen her cousin blush, and six months ago she'd seen her cousin grin. She'd never seen her do both of them at one. "This is my boyfriend, Regulus. Reg, this is my cousin, Valkyrie Cain. Val — am I allowed to call you Val? I didn't ask."

"Of course you are," said Val immediately. "Is that a thing on the Tír? Asking which name to use?"

"Of course," said Regulus, extending a hand. "It's only polite. Some people prefer their given names."

Valkyrie shifted Alison on her hip and reached out to return the handshake. She was pretty sure she remembered him now — a glimpse in a photograph she'd seen while looking for Carol six months ago, after she was kidnapped by the Remnant. She remembered they'd looked happy, in the photo. "I read that a taken name wears off if you don't use it," she said, curious. "Doesn't that happen?"

"It can," said Carol, "but for mortals it doesn't really matter, does it? The magic takes a lifetime to wear off anyway. It's more important for faeries."

"I never knew that," said Valkyrie thoughtfully. "I'll have to tell Hopeless his book is lacking." She grinned. "He's taking the ceremony, you know. I can't wait to see him in his monkly robes."

Carol squeaked and then laughed, and reached down to help Regulus with their bags. Valkyrie cast a glance around the hall. Anton was bringing bags in, Rover was pretending to help, Valkyrie wasn’t going to interrupted, and Dexter —

"Dex!" Valkyrie turned on her heel from about to follow her cousin to rushing toward Dex, Alison laughing into her shoulder. She had to stop and hug him more carefully with her sister on her hip, but Dexter turned and opened his arms and all of a sudden Valkyrie was fighting back tears. She wrapped one arm around him and both his arms came around her and her sister, and the hard weight of homesickness dissolved. She thunked her head against his shoulder to pretend that tears weren't falling. "It's about time!"

"Sorry I'm late," he said, and he sounded amused. The way he held her was a bit awkward, but then he shifted and it wasn't; and then Valkyrie remembered what Hopeless and Ghastly had said about Dexter's emotions. She pulled back a little, frowning, but not enough to actually break the hug.

"Are you okay?" she asked. "You're okay, right? Ghastly said you weren't acting normal but now you're acting kind of normal and that means you're okay, right?"

He laughed, sort-of, but now Valkyrie was listening she could tell it was a bit forced. "No," he admitted after a minute, "but I will be, or so Hopeless says. I'm pretending."

"Fake it til you make it, right?"

"Right."

Valkyrie nodded and leaned against him again. "Hug me some more."

He laughed again and this time it sounded better, more genuine, and the way he squeezed her around the shoulders was all-over big brotherly. Not as careful as Ghastly, but gentler than any of the other Dead Men, and almost as good as Anton, the one time Valkyrie had managed to get a hug from him. Okay, maybe two. Dex was a little more ginger with his gloved hand, but Valkyrie had got used to that in the last year.

Alison made a noise and squirmed, and the squirming is what made Valkyrie have to pull away, because that heralded nothing good.

"Where're the others?" she asked, bouncing Alison until she calmed down from being squished. Dexter glanced back, squinting through the daylight through the door. "Well, Erskine was with us, but he went with Fletcher to pick up Saracen. And I was helping Skulduggery yesterday, but he said he was going to go talk to Hopeless. I don't know about Ghastly."

"Skul's gonna bring Hopeless on his way in from the Sanctuary, and a couple of Mum's friends, and Mr Bliss, at the same time," said Valkyrie, calculating numbers in her head. "And Ghastly was going to meet up with Farley at the Hibernian to bring my friends from school."

"Skulduggery agreed to bring strangers in the Bentley?" Dexter raised his eyebrows. "Now I know this is a test."

Valkyrie laughed. "Mum is very persuasive. And I think Hopeless did that thing he does which makes Skulduggery melt and then grumble about it."

"With the puppy eyes, and the sad face?"

"Yes. That."

Dexter laughed and bent down to pick up their bags, and this time Valkyrie actually did walk with him to the stairs, where Carol and Regulus were waiting at the top.

"Right," said Valkyrie, remembering how this wasn't Gordon's house and therefore Carol wouldn't actually know it. "Come on, this way." She led them down the hall to the rooms they had, hastily that morning, slapped sticky-notes on to mark whose was whose; then she stopped and spun in a way which makes Alison laugh and gurgle. "Before I forget, too — everyone who's going to be here is a faery or knows about magic, but not everyone knows about the Tír. You're fine with the Dead Men, and with Mum and Dad, basically."

"Got it." Regulus nodded, and smiled a little. "This is going to be strange. I've — actually never been out of the city before. I've never had just cause."

Valkyrie glanced back and caught Carol squeezing his hand and smiling up at him. "It's okay. People are just the same, really — it's just that most of them don't know about magic."

"This is yours." Valkyrie pointed, and grinned at Dex. "We figured the lot of you better go in the master bedroom."

Dexter laughed. "Oh, Corrival's going to love that. Is there an ulterior motive here?"

"Yeah. Take pictures when you tell him."

Dexter laughed again, and Valkyrie grinned and left them sorting out rooms and luggage to go back downstairs to wait for other guests. Dexter was here, the rest of the Dead Men soon will be, her family was all around, and her little sister was about to get recognised in the eyes of Hopeless's God. Valkyrie didn't know how she felt about the last one, but hey, it wasn't something that would come anywhere near ruining the rest.


	16. The christening

By the time Valkyrie got downstairs again, Fergus was guiding Beryl indoors. Beryl was — a little weird, these days, in the way of people who got a little too broken and it showed in ways most people found uncomfortable to watch. And it _was_ uncomfortable — even Valkyrie, knowing why and how it happened, didn't really know how she was meant to handle this new Beryl. She wasn't good enough with people for that.

Luckily, soon after that, everyone else started arriving. Ghastly was first, with his van full of people, and Farley's van bringing up behind, filled mostly with equipment. Valkyrie had just directed her aunt and uncle up the stairs, and Mum had just been coming down, so it was with relief Valkyrie went for the door, sister on her hip, and waved.

" _Dude_ ," was the first thing out of Ifrit's mouth as he got out of the van, looking goggle-eyed up at the house. "This is your uncle's house?"

Valkyrie laughed. "No, this is Corrival Deuce's. It's closer to Dublin than Gordon's house, so it was more convenient to use. Gordon's house is bigger."

If possible, Ifrit's eyed bugged even more. "Your house is _even bigger_?!"

"Isn't this the house that Anatham Mire built?" Kara asked anxiously, looking up at the house. Valkyrie paused.

"No, but now I need to know why you think that."

Kara shrugged. "My mum did a lot of research in the Dead Men, remember? Corrival Deuce inherited a house his brother owned during the war, a house Anatham Mire built before he went missing. Is this it?"

"No," answered Valkyrie, wondering if she should maybe mention — yeah. No. Not right now. Hopefully Kara won't remember that Valkyrie had known the name 'Tierney Glory' and connect it to the brother. "Corrival and his brother weren't on good terms. He sold that house just as soon as he could, to someone he could trust. This one's totally unrelated."

“Oh, good,” said Kara, not hiding the relief in her tone very well, and stopped hanging back quite so much. She still fiddled with the strap of her bag. “It’s not an actual magical house though, is it?”

“Nah,” said Valkyrie with a shrug that makes Alison burble happily as she turned to lead them inside, “but given the number of sorcerers in here, it may as well start to be one. Hey, Carol!”

Her cousin was on the stairs, picking up her mother’s bags; Fergus and Beryl were at the top, and even though it made her feel guilty Valkyrie’s gaze moved around them without looking _at_ them, all of its own accord. Instead she beckoned to Carol.

“This is my cousin, Carol. She lives internationally. Carol, these are my friends from school.” 

“Hey,” said Farley, not sounding offended so much as _trying_ to sound offended just because.

“Mostly from school,” Valkyrie corrected, and pointed to each of them. “This is Ifrit, Kara, Natalie, and Farley.”

Natalie curled her fingers a little, too busy looking around to actually look at Carol. “Hey. Wow, old man Deuce is a lot richer than I thought he was based on my dad’s description.”

“Your dad’s description?” Carol asked, sounding a little startled and unsure, and Valkyrie was struck by the belated and intense surreality of having her family and her friends meet. Carol knew secrets most of the magical world didn’t, and here she was, meeting Valkyrie’s friends, who didn’t know it.

Valkyrie swallowed some hysterical laughter. “Let me guess — he saw Corrival in a ratty old rainbow coat.”

“… How did you know that?” Ifrit asked suspiciously, and Valkyrie and Carol looked at each other and laughed.

“He never wears anything else! Come on, your rooms are up here …”

Valkyrie took them upstairs and showed them around, very smugly announcing each room as if she was a tour guide and this was entirely her place to show off. Her friends made vindicatingly awed noises, most of which weren’t faked — most — except for Farley, who still liked to pretend he was too cool to care about things like this. Or maybe it wasn’t pretend. After hanging around Kenspeckle, a lot of things probably stopped being awesome.

Mum came upstairs just as they all exited into the hall, with Natalie and Ifrit comparing their bathrooms.

“There you are,” said Mum. “I need some big strong teenagers to haul some chairs and things around for me. We’re going to start setting out on the lawn.” She held out her arms for Alison.

“That’s what Dead Men are for,” Valkyrie protested, clutching her sister closer. Alison squeaked, and Valkyrie hastily adjusted her grip.

“Yes, but I’m not sure I trust Rover’s insight on the layout, or ability to stick to it,” said Mum, and Valkyrie considered that. “Carol, we’re going to need your help with the decorations.”

“Oh! Sure, of course.”

Apparently Valkyrie not getting out of this.

“Yeah, okay.” Valkyrie blew a raspberry against Alison’s cheek until her little sister screamed with laughter, and handed her to Mum, grinning. “C’mon, looks like we’ve got some work to do first.”

“Oh, so that’s why you told us not to come in just our good clothes,” said Natalie, looking amused, but in a vexed way.

“Of course.” Valkyrie turned to walk backward down the stairs, keeping her hands flat to the ground to read it using air. “Everyone gets to be used as a packhorse around here, it’s tradition. Anyway, we’ll get it done faster than the Dead Men will, if Rover’s getting his paws on everything.”

“That’s true,” said Natalie, and Ifrit grinned.

“Yeah, but he’s fun.”

“He _is_ fun,” Natalie agreed, and tossed her hair as if she wasn’t blushing at all. “More fun than I thought he’d be, anyway.”

Also covered in bunting, when they came out into the garden, and Valkyrie really couldn’t tell whether it was because he’d wrapped himself in it or Anton and Dexter had been trying to keep him _out_ of things.

“Val!” He beamed, beckoning at her with his hands pinned by his sides. “Rescue your old mate, yeah?”

“Nope, you look good,” Valkyrie informed him, and pointed. “You can stand over there and greet all the guests by hitting on them.”

“Oh, see, _Val_ gives me a good job,” Rover said to Anton, and Anton grunted.

“Valkyrie thinks you’re amusing.”

“I am! I’m hilarious!”

At which point someone, definitely not Valkyrie, accidentally tripped on his feet and sent him tumbling over with a loud squawk of objection, and just like that the — battle, such as it was, was joined. Mostly it involved using as much bunting as conceivably possible.

It was convenient in not letting her friends hang back while so many Dead Men are present, too. Sides were chosen, challenges issued, and the work began. 

Chairs were set out, the altar was carefully displayed under the awning, the trestles were arranged, and there was a gratuitous use of magic to do each and every thing. Valkyrie remembered her promise to ask Dex about his magic at about the time she saw Kara looking with hungry yearning at where he was schlooping chairs out of midair, and changed course midway to link her arm with Kara’s and drag her toward Dexter.

“Hey, Dex,” Valkyrie said cheerfully. “Kara was having some trouble with conjugation, think you could show her some things?” Dexter’s head turned while his hands were working, and a chair poofed into existence without him looking at it. Valkyrie scowled. “Show off.”

Dexter grinned, a split second too late. Valkyrie ignored that. “Isn’t that what you just asked me to do?”

“In front of Kara, not in front of _me_. It’ll be fine, Kara’s easily impressed.”

“Hey!” Kara objected, and Valkyrie laughed and pushed her toward Dexter, and escaped while she still could.

Turning around put Anton in clear view, all alone by the catering tables, and setting out the cutlery and dishes they were going to be using for the food afterward. He had grudgingly conceded to letting someone else cater the actual edibles, but only if he got full dispensation over the look of the tables.

Valkyrie sidled closer and closer in a manner she was pretty sure was subtle, but then he turned and looked at her with a face that didn’t hide the tightness around his mouth or eyes, and seemed more exasperated than she’d ever seen him be.

“Yes, Valkyrie?” he asked, very politely, and Valkyrie looked at him.

It was like Dexter, she decided, but in reverse. Dexter was trying to pretend he was having an emotion, Anton was trying to pretend he wasn’t. Between the two of them, they made up one complete well-adjusted person.

“You’re all goons,” she informed him, and lunged for a flying tackle of a hug around his waist. He fell back against the table with a surprised grunt, and his fist jerked in a way Valkyrie pretended not to notice. Then she peeled away laughing and scampered off before he could say anything else, with Rover crowing his cackling approval somewhere beneath a pile of chairs.

“You’re feeling Larrikin today, I see,” said Ghastly with amusement as he brought in another stack of trestles under his arm, and Tanith brought up the rear with their legs. Valkyrie grinned at them both, full of warm happiness.

“We’ve got a lot of people around here today. We need an extra dose of Larrikin.”

“And you better believe it!” Rover crowed in the background, followed by a yelp as he failed utterly to free himself from the pile of chairs.

“My daughter’s turned into Larrikin?” Dad asked with alarm somewhere behind Tanith. Carol was at the door, doing one of the flower arrangements, and Valkyrie saw her flinch before she saw Dad — and beside him Gordon, looking very ethereal.

“Good morning, Valkyrie,” said Gordon, looking ecstatic to be out of the house. “You don’t look much like Larrikin to me, fortunately.”

“I’m pre-transition,” Valkyrie said deadpan, and held out her hands for the Echo Stone.

“He’s asked to be stationed by the altar,” said Dad in a stage whisper.

“I’m standing right here,” Gordon protested.

“Why don’t you fall through the ground?” Ifrit asked with wide eyes from nearby, and Valkyrie laughed as Gordon spluttered.

“I’m going to put you near the basin thing, okay?” she told him, grinning. “Hopeless said there’s some part where people have to get up and stuff, so you can be there with us.”

Gordon reached out to ruffle her hair, or pretend he was doing it, and Valkyrie shook her head like he could actually touch her. “See? I knew you were my favourite, despite your conversion to Larrikinism. Desmond, you are no longer my favourite.”

“That’s unfair,” Dad objected. “How can I compete with my daughter? That would be a betrayal of my paternal responsibilities.”

“You should have thought of that before you became paternal, then, shouldn’t you?”

Valkyrie left them to their argument, shaking her head, and went to put the Echo carefully on the side of the empty basin’s pedestal. For a moment she stayed here, hand over it, to look back at Corrival’s garden and the people in it.

Anton very carefully placed the glasses in sets, pretending like he hadn’t been hugged. Rover was badgering him over his shoulder, and even though Valkyrie could see the way Anton’s back tightened, his answers were as even as they ever have been. Dexter was over by the flowerbed, contemplating a chair that had fallen apart in his hands. While Kara watched with a vibrant kind of fascination which suggested she wanted to have a pen and paper in hand, he moulded a chair out of nothing for her. Regulus was hovering just a few more feet back, in the way of someone who’d just set down a chair and got distracted, but really wasn’t sure whether he should be interloping in a conversation that wasn’t strictly his. Valkyrie didn’t know him well, or even at all, but he was Carol’s boyfriend and she could at least be happy for her.

Ifrit was by the candles — someone had to get in the way there. But despite Valkyrie’s pang of doubt, when he prodded them with his tongue between his teeth and his eyes narrowed with concentration, the wicks lit in a perfect blob of flame, and nothing else. Farley was next to his shoulder, keeping an eye on him and setting up more candles to light.

Dad and Gordon were still arguing, but they absently made way for Ghastly and Tanith bringing in another round of tables, as if Gordon couldn’t just be walked-through if he had to. It’d be rude, anyway.

From somewhere through the house’s open doors there was a shout of ‘The fun is in the house!’, and Valkyrie spared a moment to wonder just where Saracen had been, that Erskine and Fletcher had to go get him.

When he and Saracen came wandering in, they were immediately accosted and put to work. So was Fletcher, who looked a little like he wasn’t sure whether or not he should, or _wanted_ , to be here.

_Too late now,_ thought Valkyrie, grinning. She looked at it all, and her chest swelled with warmth and happiness. Yep, today was going to be a good day.

* * *

It turned out that Skulduggery and his car-load, and Hopeless, were the last ones to arrive. By then the garden was actually properly set up, and the catering van had delivered the food into the kitchen and Corrival’s giant fridge under the watchful eye of Anton’s exacting standards. Most people had gotten ready using the many, many bathrooms, and were milling about and chatting. As Mum had pointed out, it wasn’t often you got into nicer clothes and made something a bit of a party, so ‘make it specialer’ was a mandatory part of the occasion.

Some managed it better than others. Valkyrie had been been surprised to see Aunt Beryl in church-like clothes, holding Alison and cooing at her like a pro. Somehow, Valkyrie just hadn’t imagined Beryl being a maternal type … Fergus had said once she hadn’t always been like she was. Right then, Valkyrie could see it a little better.

Valkyrie was just coming downstairs herself, listening to Carol talk about makeup and trying to peer at her face in the banister. She still looked like herself, despite what Carol had been doing.

“I always thought makeup was about — I don’t know, lots of lipstick and stuff,” she’d said, and that’s what had got Carol off on this tangent. The oddly surreal thing about it was that Valkyrie didn’t _mind_ , and was almost disappointed to be distracted by the sound of the Bentley’s doors slamming.

“Oh, there they are,” said Mum from under the stairs, and went to the doors to greet her friends from the Sanctuary. Valkyrie paused on the stairs to watch, because it was fun to watch Mum with her friends. Valkyrie liked trying to figure out how many of them knew she wasn’t a sorcerer, and which ones would care.

None of Dad’s friends would be here, other than Mr Bliss; but then, he’d declared, most of his friends already _were_ here, so there was that.

“I’m going downstairs to give your mum a hand,” said Carol.

“Okay.” Valkyrie smiled. “Thanks again, for doing my makeup. I think you might be better at it than Rover.”

“Oh, no way!” Carol laughed and left, joining the small crowd forming, to be shyly introduced to the Sanctuary ladies accosting Mum.

Skulduggery came in after them, adjusting his hat and with a particular cadence to his walk which said he was Miffed. Coming in almost on his heels was Bliss, and Hopeless laughing softly still in his Grand Mage’s robes. Valkyrie grinned as she descended the stairs.

“What’s wrong, too many people in your Bentley?” she asked, and Skulduggery’s head turned slowly toward her in what would be a threatening manner if she didn’t know him as well as she did.

“Ah, Mr Bliss!” said Dad, jovially antic from the garden door. It was the way he usually sounded when he greeted Mr Bliss. “So good of you to join us! Please come in, we’re just getting people to take their seats now so we can start."

‘Not without me, I hope,’ signed Hopeless, looking amused, and Desmond’s head jerked a little.

“Ah! Hopeless! Of course, we need someone to translate for God. Right this way, I can show you where the bathrooms are.”

‘It’s fine, I know where to go,’ said Hopeless, still looking amused, and Dad’s face fell just a little before he mustered himself.

“Of course you do. Well, I guess I’d better … go out there … where there are people.”

“People you _like_ ,” Valkyrie reminded him. “Morning, Mr Bliss, how’s China?”

“Frustrated,” said Bliss, turning his cold blue eyes on her, “which is how she ought to be. Desmond?”

“Right this way.” Dad threw a ‘save me’ kind of look at Valkyrie as he took Bliss into the garden, and Valkyrie proceeded to laugh at him — silently — as Hopeless slipped off with a tiny smile to change into his monkly clothes.

That left Valkyrie and Skulduggery temporarily alone in the front hall, and Valkyrie turned toward him, still grinning. “So, what about the investigation? Do you have updates? Did you find the warlock?”

With every word she could feel the smile slipping away, and let it; this, after all, wasn’t something to grin about. This was _business_.

Skulduggery looked at her for a moment, in a way with his head tipped that seemed to be distant and contemplative, and Valkyrie resisted the urge to snap her fingers in front of his eye-sockets. Then she did it anyway, just because she could. “Hello? Earth to Skulduggery?”

His head jerked a little, and shifted more upright, in a paying-attention kind of way. “Ah, Valkyrie. When did you arrive?”

“Goon,” she said, grinning. “Seriously, though, any updates?”

“Some,” said Skulduggery, “but let’s not talk about them now of all times. It is, after all, a planned holiday.”

Valkyrie narrowed her eyes at him. Oh, that’s not suspicious at all! “Since when have _you_ refused to talk business during non-business hours?”

He adjusted his hat. It was the second time in, what, ten minutes? Less? “Since it’s been made acutely clear to me that, somehow, I’m considered a _role model_ for several different people,” he said dryly, and motioned toward the garden. “Show me in?”

Still suspicious. She eyeballed him for a moment longer, figuring out whether this was a time to push or a time to let slide — but then Rover whooped from the garden and she decided that probably there was a better time to be grilling Skulduggery about things that would ruin her happiness, anyway.

“Right you are. If you’ll walk this way … and no, you won’t need talcum powder.”

She was almost certain she heard him chuckling softly as she led the way into the garden, and her smile needed no prompting to return.


	17. Names and nameless

The actual ceremony, it turned out, was pretty short and to the point. Valkyrie hadn’t looked up a lot of information beforehand, but she knew they would all have to get up and stand around the pedestal with Alison.

When Hopeless finally came out Valkyrie saw Ghastly eyeballing his robes, and grinned to herself. They honestly didn’t look _much_ different from the Grand Mage’s robes, she was a little disappointed — but Ghastly had judged the Grand Mage’s robes too.

Hopeless went to the front and motioned for them to come stand with him. At this point Valkyrie had managed to abscond with her sister, so she stood nearest the basin of water, now filled, and cradled Alison in her arms.

She turned a little to see whether Ghastly was still judging Hopeless’s robes as he fit his way through the aisle of chairs. He was, and made a face at Hopeless as he came to stand by the Edgleys, looking a little awkward up the front where all the godliness was meant to be happening.

He looked a little less awkward when Tanith put her hand in his and gave him a warm smile. Valkyrie grinned, and Hopeless gave her a wink, and turned toward everyone else.

He was wearing his thoughtspeaker, so his voice came clearly, no translation needed. “I realise most people here think that christenings are all about God. You know who you are.” There was a soft, slightly nervous titter, probably mostly from the people from the Sanctuary. “And it’s true, when people talk about baptism it’s usually in relation to God. But what we’re doing here today is really just a convenient way to express a simple act: the induction of a child into a community that will guide her, support her, and most of all, love her, until the end of her days.”

Somehow, that hit like a gut-punch. 

_You are NOT going to get teary,_ Valkyrie told herself sternly. _You are definitely not going to get teary in front of all these people_.

Hopeless didn’t make it easy. He didn’t mention God at all after that. Mostly, he spoke about love, family, commitment and the promises to support one another. Valkyrie blinked rapidly at intervals, and caught Rover sniffling somewhere near Anton at the back of the garden, and actually that _really didn’t help_.

The actual christening was simpler, and also a lot harder, with Hopeless looking each of them in the eye, asking them the same question: “Do you promise to cherish and support Alison, to guide her and to love her, to teach her honour, integrity, compassion and hope, for all the days of your life?”

When it was her turn the lump in Valkyrie’s throat made it really hard to talk. At first she just nodded silently, and then realised that if she didn’t actually _say_ anything she’d regret it the rest of her life —

“Yeah. I do.”

Hopeless’s smile was warm and encouraging, and Valkyrie still couldn’t help but feel a little relieved when he moved onto Ghastly and Tanith. Tanith’s voice was clear and even. Ghastly sounded like he might have had something stuck in his throat. Valkyrie’s parents had no trouble, but Valkyrie snuck a glance over her shoulder and saw them looking lovingly at one another, and turned back around smiling and wiggling her fingers at Alison.

The response from the rest of the attendees was a bit more scattered. Valkyrie got the impression most of them didn’t expect to be asked.

The rest was a bit of a blur. Valkyrie had to hold Alison over the basin while Hopeless poured some water over her forehead, and it seemed a bit silly compared to all the emotion that had been going on with the words; but it was symbolic, Valkyrie guessed, and faeries weren’t the only people who liked their symbolism.

And that was pretty much it, aside from Hopeless saying a few words to wrap up. Valkyrie got the impression there was usually a lot more _stuff_ that went on between, more blessings and songs and sermons and whatnot, but there were more than a few wet eyes in the garden by that point and she was pretty sure none of them really minded, or noticed, if anything might have been cut out.

The chairs, so painstakingly erected, were cleared away for mingling, and they all turned out under Anton’s close eye to get the food from the fridge to the tables so they could eat. And mingle. And put on some music. Pretend to ignore Rover dancing. (Fail to ignore Rover dancing.)

Slowly the heavy emotion that had been in the air during the christening cleared, but the warm bubble of happiness in Valkyrie didn’t pop.

It was nothing like the party at the golf club, Valkyrie found herself thinking at least once, and then having to rub her eyes again. It was smaller, for one, and she knew most everyone there — even the weirdos like Bliss. Even the too-straightlaced women Mum knew from the Sanctuary, in as much as they could be when half of them are over a century old and all of them knew magic.

There was some awkwardness, between her friends and her parents’ friends, between Farley and Fletcher eyeballing each other for reasons unknown, but it mostly subsided before long. Valkyrie got to overhear some of the Sanctuary guests talking to Kara and Natalie about their parents, in that awkward way older people had where they wanted information and didn’t realise how bored their target was. Valkyrie stayed far away and eavesdropped mostly because conversations like that let her learn a little more about how sorcerers work, when they weren’t rich or famous.

The best part, as far as Valkyrie was concerned, was when they all managed to escape the adults into a corner of the garden, flopped in the grass. It started out as just the club, but Valkyrie caught Fletcher looking torn between wanting to join the ‘adults’ and being bored out of his skull, and finally waved him over.

“Sit down, that looks painful,” she told him, and totally ignored the look of surprised vindication he wore as he sat.

“I was generating business,” he started, and Valkyrie waved a lazy hand to press muffling air across his mouth to make him shut up.

“No one cares; this is a no-business zone.”

Then Carol and Regulus came wandering over, arm in arm, and Carol asked, “Mind if we join you?”

No one was going to say no. Valkyrie patted the ground next to her. “C’mon. The adults are being _boring_.”

Even the Dead Men were talking business, though at least Rover was doing it in a way that was hilarious to watch from a distance.

“Yeah, and your mum’s friends are kind of …” Natalie motioned. “No offence to her, but I didn’t come here expecting to get accosted by Sanctuary employees wanting to know when my dad’s getting back on stage.”

“Yeah, I don’t actually know any of them all that well,” Valkyrie admitted. “At least they’re sorcerers though, so we don’t have to hide any magic.” She grinned. “Anyway, be real, you came here for the chance to knock Hopeless’s sermon, didn’t you?”

Natalie was, on the whole, too shameless to blush nearly as much as Gail, Kara, Ifrit or even Valkyrie herself, but right now her cheeks went red. “Okay, fine. Yeah, I thought I might as well come because it’d be funny.”

“Have you never been to a church before?” Carol asked curiously. Natalie shook her head.

“They’re all about the same as necromancers, aren’t they? Brainwashing and cults.”

Valkyrie caught Hopeless’s head turning, and his wink toward her, and laughed. “The _bad_ ones are, sure. And there’s a lot of bad ones, I guess. Not that I can talk, I can’t remember the last time I set foot in a church.” She thought it over. “Wait, no, it was last year; and before that it was a few years ago, and funnily enough, both times I was after the same guy. But I never really came for the services.”

“You might want to sometime,” said Carol, and started slowly reddening when the rest of the group looked at her with various stages of interest and curiosity. “I mean, the one where we live is really good.”

“You go?” Valkyrie couldn’t quite keep the surprise out of her voice. Carol nodded, looking down and poking at blades of grass. Regulus shifted wordlessly so their shoulders touched.

“It helps Mum,” she said simply. “A lot of her friends are through the church. She’s even leaving the house for some groups now.”

“What happened to your mum?” Ifrit asked, craning his head to look past their shoulders. “She’s a bit — ow!” He rubbed his arm and scowled at Natalie, who’d just stretched out a leg and kicked him.

“Oops,” she said shamelessly, and continued stretching as if nothing had happened, and Valkyrie managed to find a smile.

“It’s okay,” said Carol, also smiling, but like she wasn’t sure whether she should. “The day we found out about magic, Baron Vengeous murdered most of our extended family during a family reunion. Val was there. We were all there. My twin sister Crystal was killed.”

Ifrit looked horrified. Natalie stopped what she was doing; even Farley, in a moment of startled horror, dropped his facade of disinterest. Valkyrie shrugged at them.

“Yep. That’s why we moved to Dublin. My aunt and uncle and Carol decided to get out of Ireland altogether. That’s also why none of our other family is here — the ones that were left are mostly kids, and no one wanted to come. Don’t blame them, really.”

“Gosh, Val,” Kara whispered, and abruptly Valkyrie didn’t want the horrible looks on their faces, didn’t want to see the sympathy and the honest inability to really imagine, even though they’d try —

If things kept going the way they were with Mevolent, they might find out.

_That_ was also something Valkyrie didn’t want to think about, not today; so she forced a smile on her face instead. “Let’s talk about something else. Carol, I’ve been wondering, since you asked about my name. Do you have one yet?”

“Yeah,” said Carol, “but I don’t use it all that often, and I prefer going by Carol.”

“Regulus?”

He grinned. “Regulus _is_ my taken name. I have a twin too, you see — we always knew we were going to be paired with our taken names.”

Valkyrie stared, and then laughed. “You’re _kidding_.”

“It’s fun to see people’s faces when we introduce ourselves together,” he said, and shrugged one-shouldered, the one not pressed against Carol’s. “At least, it was when we were young, and it hasn’t stopped yet.”

“Is he a doctor too?”

“No, he’s in physics. I studied biology, I want to focus on the physiological aspects of magic and magic-use. He was always more interested in the purely physical aspects of it.”

“How are you covering that in a mortal university?” Kara asked, and just like that Valkyrie’s lovely distraction was stopped in its tracks as she realised that they’ve walked right into territory she’d warned them away from. She turned toward the rest of them, fishing desperately for a diversion she hadn’t really been prepared for.

Farley saved her, and even though he couldn’t know that he did, Valkyrie felt a surge of affectionate gratitude. “How far are you along in your degree?”

“I’m just going into residency,” said Regulus willingly, in the tone of someone who’d had to answer this question many, many times, and was glad to answer it, on this occasion. Valkyrie hoped that meant he realised where they’d almost gone. “I got some time off in-between, so I came to visit Dublin with Carol. When we go back I’ll be starting.”

“Go back wh —” Natalie started asking, but Farley interrupted again.

“How difficult is it, to get into a good medical school?”

“I can’t speak for Dublin, but there’s scholarships available for some good ones,” said Regulus. “Is that where you’re aiming to go?”

“Yes,” said Farley, and the rest of the Club looked at him in surprise, even Valkyrie. He scowled at them all. “What? You don’t think I’m sticking around the Hibernian just because Grouse gave me a room there, did you?”

“Actually,” Ifrit began.

“Well, I’m not.”

“Grouse?” Regulus asked, suddenly a lot more attentive, and a lot more animated than Valkyrie had seen him so far. “You’re working for _Kenspeckle Grouse_?”

“Yeah,” said Farley, a little short, and Valkyrie knew he was avoiding talking about how, about why — about how Valkyrie had dragged him there after seeing him beat up, and found out he’d been thrown out by his parents.

“I would _pay_ to work under Kenspeckle Grouse,” Regulus muttered. “Forget med school. If you’re working under him, you won’t need it.”

“You say that,” said Farley long-sufferingly, “but when it came to study all he did was throw some books at me and tell me to get to it. I’d like something a _little_ more regimented than that.”

“Oh, yeah, I had a teacher like _that_ —”

“And they’re off,” Valkyrie muttered to Carol, grinning, and she giggled, pulling away a little to sit closer to Valkyrie, now that Regulus was almost explicitly leaning toward Farley.

“I thought this was a no-business area,” Fletcher objected.

“That’s not business, that’s play,” said Valkyrie with as much dignity as Rover could probably, maybe, muster, and grinned at Fletcher, flicking air at his hair. “Come on, we _all_ know how special you are, you can stop talking about it for once.”

“I wouldn’t have just talked about my magic,” said Fletcher sulkily, fluffing his hair back up. Carol giggled again, and turned toward the rest of the club. “What about the rest of you? Do you have your taken names yet? I bet you do.”

The last was at Ifrit, who puffed up his chest. “Well, half of one. I used to go through them like candy, but Ifrit’s stuck. It’s just taken me this long to figure out how to pair it.”

“Come to think of it,” said Valkyrie thoughtfully, “I don’t think I even _know_ your given name.” They weren’t in the same home-room, and not in all the same classes, so she’d never heard him during attendance before.

“It’s Ben,” he said, and reddened until his freckles stood out starkly. “I prefer Ifrit. Not that there’s anything wrong with _Ben_ , it’s just not something I picked, you know?”

“You said it’s just taken you _this_ long to figure it out,” said Natalie accusingly. “ _Have_ you, and just didn’t tell the rest of us?”

“I thought you’d laugh,” said Ifrit with a shrug. “It’s from that TV show Val reminded me of, it’s the name of one of the characters.”

The way Natalie’s mouth compressed said a lot about the remark she was withholding — but she _did_ withhold it, which was kind of a surprise, since it was exactly the kind of thing she remarked on. “It’s _your_ name,” she said with an affected shrug, and switched which leg she was stretching. “I might have figured one of mine out. I’m still working on the other.”

“I think I know mine too,” said Kara quietly. “But it’s just one, maybe.”

“Really?” Valkyrie said. “I didn’t know either of you were close.”

“Well, with the two of you …” Kara motioned between her and Ifrit. “You’ve had yours since you were _twelve_.”

“Yeah, but Hopeless says I’m really young for a sorcerer to pick their name,” said Valkyrie easily. “Even for someone older — back in the day, magical kids didn’t usually take names until their age of majority. So it’s not like you’re _late_ , we’re just early.” She turned to Ifrit to give Kara the time to absorb that. “Is it Zuko?”

He grinned at her sheepishly. “… Yeah. Ifrit Zuko. You can keep calling me just Ifrit, though, it’s not like we’re gonna be _formal_ or anything.”

“I can’t believe _Ifrit_ got his name before me,” Natalie muttered, and took a deep breath. “Serena.”

“As in, Serena Williams?” Carol asked with a smile. “I think that’s a nice name. You like sports?”

“Yep,” said Natalie. “My dad’s in ballet, my mother does choreography. I’ve been going for a martial Adept discipline. I don’t know what’s going to come on the end, though. Serena on its own feels incomplete. So stick with Natalie for now.”

Valkyrie looked at Kara, who was looking at the grass with a deep expression of concentration, and pulling up blades of grass one by one. “Kara?”

She looked sheepish, without looking up. “You’ll laugh.”

“I won’t laugh,” Valkyrie promised, and carefully didn’t look toward Natalie. If two people saying that to her didn’t make her wonder about her attitude, nothing would, and Valkyrie wasn’t gonna police her for it. She did turn her head just enough to see Natalie’s frown, though. Good.

“Then you’ll think it’s arrogant,” said Kara, and Valkyrie laughed.

“Dude.” She motioned sweepingly at herself, and then pointed to the skeleton pretending he wasn’t having a good time over by where Rover was making a fool of himself using napkins and bunting. “Look who _I_ hang out with.”

Kara reddened a litlte, and muttered something.

“Didn’t hear that,” said Valkyrie cheerfully.

Kara raised her voice, _barely_. “It’s Eve.”

Somehow, not something Valkyrie had been expecting, and the bubble of amusement popped into something uncertain and heart-squeezingly sympathetic. “Eve,” she said slowly, testing. “Like Eve from the Bible?”

Kara took a deep breath, and didn’t look at Natalie. “Yeah.”

“That’s nice too,” said Carol softly. “Why that one?”

“Because …” Kara motioned a little at herself. “Because what I’m trying to learn is a field of magic that isn’t even a field of magic. And I thought it would be good to, you know, establish that I did it first. It’s dumb.”

“It’s not,” Valkyrie told her. “There’s nothing wrong with saying ‘hey, women did this first’, you know.”

“I mean, I kind of didn’t …”

“Dex still calls himself an energy-thrower, you know,” Valkyrie pointed out. “Just one who can do conjurations too. If what you want to do is make this a discipline, then yeah, you’re doing it first.”

Kara smiled at her, grateful and still a little tremulous, and then looked at Natalie, looking up at the sky.

“I feel stupid,” Natalie muttered, and shook her head. “We all have to believe in something, I guess.”

It was about as close to an apology as Natalie really knew how to do, and Kara’s smile came a little steadier. Valkyrie felt a pang, but only a little one. They’d known each other since forever, but still, sometimes, it took someone else to keep them talking.

“What about me?” Fletcher asked, sounding put out, and Valkyrie turned toward him in surprise, blinking. 

“Honestly, you’ve just always been Fletcher,” she said, trying to pretend she hadn’t actually forgotten. … Okay, maybe she had a little. He scowled at her.

“Gee, thanks.”

Valkyrie shrugged awkwardly. “Sorry. I mean, I assume Fletcher is your taken name, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, then. What do you want me to say?” He scowled at her and stirred like he was about to stalk off, and Valkyrie reached for his arm to pull him back down, rolling her eyes. “God, you’re so ready to be insulted sometimes. Sit down, you need to spend more time on things like this and less time on your _business_ , I swear.”

It couldn’t be good to go around only teleporting people everywhere, even if he was earning money out of it.

Fletcher huffed, but he settled, and for a few minutes they all sat quietly, listening to Regulus and Farley discussing medicine, and the conversation in the larger part of the garden. Eventually Carol scootched a bit closer to Kara to ask what she was doing with the magic in her hands, and Ifrit, staring at Fletcher, asked him how he got his hair to stay up like that, and Natalie just sat between the pairs, stretching and listening.

Valkyrie looked at them all, at the these groups that really shouldn’t have met ever, with one side knowing things the other didn’t. Something in her chest burned, something made of hot fierce affection and guilt at once. 

She wanted to tell them. About the Tír. About — a bunch of other stuff too. But she wasn’t sure whether she _should_ , and she couldn’t right now, anyway. The Dead Men weren’t her generation. They were her teachers, not her peers. Sometimes they acted so childishly it was hard to remember, and then she had conversations like the one with Ghastly the other day and it hit home.

_These_ were her people. These were the ones she was going to grow up with. Even Fletcher. She was making an executive decision on that one. He’d been willing to look after her aunt and uncle when the Remnant was around, and the Dead Men had been using him like a taxi, so it was probably about time he had some friends his own age so he didn’t keep doing things that were stupid.

Valkyrie didn’t want to keep hiding things from half of the group. Not when they were things as wonderful as the Tír.

Maybe she could ask Ghastly and Erskine about it — later.

The quiet moment was broken when Rover came tumbling into their midst covered in bunting and cake. Kara shrieked and Natalie bounced backward with a curse; Fletcher teleported away with Ifrit in tow and then sheepishly back; and Carol and Valkyrie just looked at each other and fell apart laughing.


	18. Out of the Temple

Saffron wasn’t a real necromancer. She knew that, quite well, because all her teachers had always said so. She couldn’t use shadow, she couldn’t use death; she couldn’t do anything necromancers really considered _theirs_. She was a healer. She dealt in the body, in biology. Even the Temple needed non-necromantic magics in order to function.

But they never let her forget it.

Saffron mostly didn’t mind. Mostly. Sometimes it was annoying. Sometimes she’d like to stand up and remind the clerics that their wounds couldn’t be healed, their illnesses couldn’t be tended, without healers. But that would be disrespectful, and ungrateful, and not aligned with the Temple’s ultimate goal.

Some of the senior healers, the clerics, were a little more forthright — but even they were secretive and liable to come down on anyone who might question.

Saffron wished they weren’t like that. Maybe if they weren’t, she wouldn’t be stuck in this broom-cupboard, her heart pounding and her hands clammy, and waiting for footsteps to pass by.

“It’s clear,” said Cleric Baritone tersely, and cracked the door a little more, beckoning her impatiently. Saffron swallowed hard against fluttering terror and stepped out of the broom cupboard, unresisting as he took her arm and pull-guided her down the hall to another room around the corner, where they paused to ascertain whether the hall would continue to be safe. Saffron took a deep breath and found her courage.

“Do you think — anyone else …?”

“I don’t know,” said Cleric Baritone, “and we have to assume they haven’t. No matter what, we’re getting out of here.” He looked at her from the door, his face forbidding and grim, and eyes sharp. “If I have to stay back, then you’ll get out alone. Got that?”

Saffron nodded mutely. She wasn’t a fighter. If it came down to defending herself, her best recourse was running away. She knew that.

Healers were cowards, she’d been told. She couldn’t object. As far as she knew, it was the truth.

“You remember where to go?”

“The Government Buildings,” she said, her voice nearly inaudible in the quiet of the room, and saying it loud makes her heart beat fast and panicked against her throat. “I — I can’t shadow-walk —”

“Never mind that,” said Baritone grimly. “If you have to, you can walk the whole way. If not, take a taxi, and tell them —”

“I don’t know what those are,” said Saffron, very quietly, and Baritone cut himself off with a breath that sounded like it should have a curse in it.

“ _This_ is the price of our privacy,” he muttered. “They’re yellow cars. If you wave at one, they’ll stop for you. Tell them you can’t pay until you get to your destination. If none of them agree to take you there, walk. Someone will be able to tell you where to go. Everyone knows where the Government Buildings are.”

“What about you?”

“I need to go to Italy,” said Baritone grimly. “Craven’s imprisoned a member of the Italian Temple. They won’t like that. They won’t like what he’s trying to do, either. We need reinforcements.”

He clipped off the last word in a way which says he wasn’t interested in further conversation, and so Saffron said nothing. When he indicated her to move, she moved; she he indicated for her to stop, she stopped, and slowly they leapfrogged room by room through the Temple. Sometimes that meant pulling back to rooms or broom cupboards, hiding from fellow clerics who could still walk around these halls like they belonged here.

It was while they were tucked in an alcove around a corner waiting for a pair to finish talking in the corridor that she mustered her courage again to ask, as softly as she could: “Why are you sending me to mortals?”

Baritone didn’t look over. “Everyone knows where the Government Buildings are; not everyone knows where the Waxworks Museum is. What’s more, if you present at the Sanctuary, Guild or Bliss are likely to have you arrested before they listen to what you have to say. The Taoiseach is in Ravel’s pocket. You go to him, you’ll wind up in front of the Dead Men, and that’s where you need to be. Hush now.”

Saffron hushed as the conversation around the corner ended. The footsteps echoed as they walked away. Baritone took her arm and they moved swiftly around the corner to a nook just down from the quartermaster. Saffron didn’t know what they’re doing _here_ , instead of trying to get to the entrance, but Cleric Baritone knew what was going on and Saffron didn’t, so she said nothing.

Here, the doors stood open, and there was enough traffic to make slipping through the door difficult, but not impossible. The High Priest had demanded some measure of dignity, which apparently meant more robes and hoods up, even in the halls. Saffron didn’t understand why that was important. She didn’t understand a lot of things.

Mostly, she just remembered Cleric Wreath speaking to her politely and kindly, even at his most frustrated, even when he collided with objects in his blindness and she was a convenient scapegoat for injuries that would never heal.

Most of her patients didn’t speak to her quite so kindly. When he asked if she’d be willing to help outside the Temple, she had barely hesitated to say ‘yes’.

Now that was coming back to haunt her, and she wasn’t even sure why, except that the High Priest really did not like Cleric Wreath.

Baritone reached for her hood and pulled it up, and Saffron adjusted it so she could see a radius of the floor, and no one else could see her face.

“We’re going to walk in there,” Baritone said low. “The exit is behind one of the shelves in the quartermaster’s office. Don’t stop for anything. No one will question a healer’s embroidery.” Saffron nodded, her throat too tight to speak. “I’ll be right behind you.”

Saffron wanted to say something, desperately, but her throat didn’t want to work and then there was a break enough in the traffic. Baritone drew up his hood and nudged her sharply around the corner and Saffron went, falling in ahead of someone coming around the father corner. She walked in a daze through the quartermaster’s open doors, past the low movement of acolytes and lower clerics taking inventory. She was aware, at every step, of Baritone behind her, just over her shoulder; was aware of his breath, and her own rattling in her chest, and the awareness that _this was no longer safe_ and if they were seen, they would be taken prisoner. Maybe taken before the High Priest; maybe just thrown into a cell, like Clerics Pandemona and Annunziata —

Terror made Saffron’s footsteps falter, and Baritone’s knuckles dug her hard in the back until she kept going, but stumbled over her feet. Baritone caught her arm, kept her upright, but they slowed down, and Cleric Solus chose that moment to come out of his office.

He’d been in his office all along, how could she have escaped that way —

Unless Cleric Baritone had never meant to leave with her —

Unless he’d only meant to make sure she, alone, could leave —

Cleric Solus peered at them suspiciously. “Hey. Aren’t you —”

“Bertrand,” said Cleric Quiver’s smooth voice behind them, _next to them_ , and Saffron almost froze up entirely, her heart in her throat and her eyes burning so hard that tears begin falling before she realised they had. “The High Priest demands a change to the Temple’s robes.”

“What, again? If he keeps changing his mind, we’re going to run out of fabric!”

“Be that as it may,” said Quiver, impassive and low, “it is the High Priest’s command. Please show me your inventory.”

Cleric Solus let out an annoyed sound and turned away from them to beckon Quiver toward the tailor’s area. Quiver’s gaze moved over them, so swiftly Saffron almost missed it; and he cannot have missed her tears, he cannot have missed her tremble and their tension —

He turned away and followed the quartermaster. Baritone’s exhale was heavy behind her, and this time when he nudged her, Saffron went, walking at an even pace, despite her terror, into Cleric Solus’s office and their only means of escape from a Temple that was no longer home.


	19. This evening's entertainment

That night, there was a knock on the door as Valkyrie was getting ready for bed. For an instant she debated pretending she was already asleep, because it turned out emotions took a lot out of her — but the light was on and no one would knock unless it was important.

“Come in,” she called as she hurriedly pulled on the jersey she liked for sleeping. It was old and ratty and fit a lot more snugly than it used to — but it was comforting, and she still liked it.

Kara poked her head in and then shuffled inside to close the door like she was doing something clandestine.

“What’s up?” Valkyrie asked. “If you found something in your bed, blame Rover.”

Kara smiled and shook her head. “No, I just didn’t know if you’d want to be bothered this late for something that might be stupid.”

“Let me decide,” Valkyrie told her, and flopped on her bed to look at Kara upside-down. “So what’s up?”

“It’s about that guy we saw on the street the other day,” Kara explained, sinking to the floor and wrapping her arms around her knees so Valkyrie could look at her eye to upside-down eye. “You asked about him, and the Sanctuary people talking today reminded me, but I wasn’t sure if you wanted to talk about that stuff, but it seemed important at the time, sooooo …”

The guy on the street — _in front of the Hibernian_. That had been right after Macha had brought in Lynch’s body, hadn’t it? Suddenly wide awake, Valkyrie flipped over to give Kara her full attention. “Yeah, I wanna know about that,” she said. “Thanks for not waiting.”

“I thought about it,” Kara admitted, “and then I thought about every heroine in every book ever who decides not to trust her gut and it turns out her information was super valuable, so.”

“Yeah, let’s _not_ be that heroine,” Valkyrie agreed, and they grinned at each other. “You were gonna ask your mum about him, right?”

“Right.” Kara nodded. “And I did. His name is Kenny Dunne. He’s pretty rock-bottom kind of a reporter — Mum said she felt bad for him. Sometimes people are just cursed with bad luck, you know? Kenny sounded like one of those people. He was a good reporter, but he just couldn’t get anywhere on time, and it’s not like he didn’t try.”

“ _Is_ there a curse on him?” Valkyrie asked with interest. The biggest curse she’d heard of was on Ghastly, and you couldn’t get much bigger than that. She hadn’t really thought about smaller ones, or what some sorcerers might put on unaware mortals. That seemed really unfair.

“Dunno.” Kara shrugged. “But Mum said recently she mentioned it to him, as a joke, only he didn’t take it like a joke. He started asking her questions about, you know, curses and witches and things like that — she reckons he was definitely fishing. She shut him down, of course, but then totally forgot to report it to the Sanctuary.”

“Forgot?”

“Well, she didn’t want to make his life harder,” Kara admitted. “She’s got a soft spot for people down on their luck. The thing is that he hasn’t come talk to her after that, which she found a bit weird. Usually they’d talk every couple of weeks, and she’d give him some leads into things.”

Valkyrie turned that over and over in her head. Not talking to her again, even after they’ve known each other for a _while_ … there was something there. “You said she shut him down. How?”

“I dunno, she didn’t say. It seems kind of weird he’d turn up in front of the Hibernian though, doesn’t it?”

And right as a body was brought in, too, Valkyrie thought, and rolled off her bed onto her feet, brushing down her jersey. “Yep. It sure does. Come on, I want you to tell the Dead Men this.”

Kara’s eyes widened. “Really?”

“Yeah.” Valkyrie grinned and held out a hand to help her up. “We’re _not_ going to be those heroines, remember?”

* * *

When they got downstairs Valkyrie could hear voices from the kitchen, so she pulled Kara in that direction, trying to keep a lid on the burgeoning flutter of excitement in her chest. She made sure to drop a footstep extra hard so they heard her. Sure enough, the voices cut off and Skulduggery appeared in the doorway, pretending to be surprised.

“Ah, Valkyrie. Shouldn’t you be in bed?”

“I break all the rules,” she told him, and dragged Kara a little closer. “Kara had some information I thought might be related to the case. Do you have a moment?”

“Ah,” said Skulduggery, glancing back. Whoever was in there must have signalled, because Skulduggery looked back and nodded. “In fact, we all do. We were just discussing the same thing. Come in.”

Kara squeaked and Valkyrie ignored it to drag her into the kitchen proper, and surveyed the scene with a bit of surprise. All the Dead Men were in there, and Bliss to boot — sprawled, leaned or seated in various fashions around the kitchen until it seemed much smaller than it was. Tanith wasn’t. That made Valkyrie wonder.

Rover was actually laying on his stomach on the kitchen table, with legs kicked in the air and a mug of hot chocolate in his hands, and waved at them cheerfully.

“You bad girls you. Breaking your curfew. Good, good!”

Valkyrie grinned. “Goon. Where’s my hot chocolate? I think we should get a reward for being such bad, bad girls.”

“Coming right up,” said Saracen smugly, handing each of them a mug and pushing them into two of the chairs available mostly because most of the Dead Men weren’t on chairs.

“She knows?” Bliss asked Skulduggery from the kitchen table, the side that Rover’s feet weren’t threatening.

“Not what Dexter and I found,” said Skulduggery, “but about Lynch’s murder, and the details thereof, yes.”

“Right,” said Valkyrie, taking a sip without blowing to test whether Saracen was still on form. He was, and she took a deeper drink and licked off the foam moustache.

“You’ve been teaching her bad habits,” Skulduggery said to Rover. Rover widened his eyes.

“ _Me_? What bad habits would _I_ have taught our dear, dear pet?”

“For one thing,” said Skulduggery, “a bad sense of timing.”

Valkyrie grinned again. “Kara and I saw a suspicious personage outside the Hibernian when we went there for training the other day. I totally forgot to mention it, because of Lynch’s murder.”

Skulduggery’s head turned, very slowly, toward her. “A suspicious person, and you _forgot_ to mention it?”

“He was only suspicious because Kara knew who he was,” Valkyrie explained, and nudged Kara. “Tell them what you told me.”

Kara jumped and looked at the room with wide eyes, opening and shutting her mouth for a moment before she looked pleadingly at Valkyrie. Belatedly Valkyrie remembered that today was the first time anyone from the Club had seen all the Dead Men in one place, all together. To have them all looking at her like that, and Bliss too — yeah, that was probably a bit much.

She took pity on Kara to fill them in herself. “He’s a reporter named Kenny Dunne. Kara’s seen him talking to her mum, because her mum does some mortal stuff. He was asking about magic recently, and then stopped coming.”

Dexter looked at Skulduggery. “Ms Duchnaj said that Paul Lynch was getting visitors. Someone who didn’t turn up.”

“She even said he was a reporter,” said Skulduggery. “This is ominously fortuitous.” He turned to Kara. “What kind of person is he?”

“Uh, well, Mum said he’s kind of down on his luck, you know? Practically cursed with bad timing. He couldn’t be on time if he tried.”

“That might have saved his life,” Dexter said just a little too clinically to be Dexter, and then he shook his head and shrugged his shoulders, as if to shake off lack of emotion. “So, this reporter fellow’s late for a meeting with Paul Lynch —”

“And Paul Lynch is murdered before they can meet,” said Skulduggery.

“And then the halfway house is burned down.”

“It seemed like an oddly illogical sequence of events, doesn’t it?” said Skulduggery musingly. “A murder in near-public is obvious enough, but to then burn down the halfway house once the source is already dead?”

“Woah!” Valkyrie put down her mug so she could make a ‘time out’ sign. “The halfway-house got burned down?”

“Incredibly enough, it was not an accident,” said Skulduggery with a tip of his head. “And now we’re even on the withholding information front. Kara, is there anything else your mother could tell us? Such as, perhaps, Mr Dunne’s address?”

“Uh …” Kara blinked. “Yeah, probably. She talked to him pretty often. Do you need me to call her?”

“If you please.”

They waited a few beats for Kara to put down her mug and escape from the oppressively full-of-important-people room, and Valkyrie turned back to the Dead Men, crossing her legs. “So, arson, huh? _That’s_ what you didn’t want to tell me today?”

“I thought it would put a damper on the festivities,” said Skulduggery, and turned to Erskine. “Kenny Dunne.”

“I’m already looking, dead man,” said Erskine, and he was: set up on Hopeless’s laptop, leaning on the counter with his shirtsleeves rolled up and Hopeless seated, legs daintily crossed, on the counter next to him with a cup of tea in each of his hands. Valkyrie eyeballed them for a moment and then said nothing. 

“I don’t remember the name off hand. He wasn’t on _my_ list, or Gordon’s. D, D …” Erskine looked up and shook his head. “He’s not on the Tír’s list either.”

“So he’s purely mortal,” said Skulduggery, “investigating magic of his own volition, and speaking to a sorcerer who could see potential futures and also comes from the Tír.”

“It might not have been outside of Lynch’s remit,” said Erskine. “I’ll call in and ask them if they can check Lynch’s reports. I don’t have copies of those, just a list of names. If Lynch mentioned him, we might still be able to get information from his side of things.”

Saracen put up his hand. “Anyone seeing the same connection I am, or is it just me?”

“You mean how a mortal reporter no one is tracking might be the cause of someone wanting to nuke Dublin?” Dexter asked. “No, I hadn’t seen that, whatsoever.”

Someone made a sound like a dying puppy. Belatedly Valkyrie realised it was her, mostly because of the way everyone in the room turned back toward her, and she took a deep breath to ease the sudden pound of her heart. “Nuke Dublin?”

Skulduggery looked at Dexter, who didn’t look chagrined, but rubbed his face and grimaced, which was sort-of the same thing. “I really need to stop doing that.”

“Aw, wifey.” Rover patted Dexter’s hand, his grin the slightly too large for his face. “Don’t put a leash on your mouth too quickly, I still need to learn _aaalll_ your secrets.”

“You _are_ one of my secrets, wife,” Dexter shot back, and Valkyrie put up her hand.

“Um. Excuse me. _Nuke Dublin_?”

“Paul Lynch had a recurring vision,” said Erskine as Hopeless quietly put down both their mugs, “of Dublin being destroyed in a nuclear explosion. Given that he saw that and not Mevolent, we know it’s an imminent risk.”

“And that’s what you’re all doing downstairs, skulking about in Corrival’s kitchen?”

Erskine cracked a smile. It didn’t look very amused. “Pretty much.”

Valkyrie looked at Bliss, calmly drinking from a mug. In a stab of perverse curiosity, Valkyrie wondered whether he was drinking hot chocolate too, or something else. “And we’re telling people about Mevolent now? I thought we wanted to be careful about causing a panic and making people think we’re just making stuff up.”

‘Given the circumstances, there’s only so many things we can juggle at once,’ Hopeless signed. ‘So, yes, we’re telling people we suspect Mevolent now.’

“It’s true that not everyone _wants_ to believe in the possibility,” Saracen added, “but Bliss isn’t one of them, luckily for us, so there’s nothing lost in letting him know.”

“What about the other thing?”

“What other thing?”

Valkyrie looked at Hopeless, caught his tight, wry smile and the way Erskine’s face suddenly went very flat and rigid. Valkyrie nodded. “Oh, okay, so everyone knows about that too, now, I guess?”

“This one isn’t my fault,” said Dexter, raising his hand a little. “It was the Monster Hunters. And Guild, it’s definitely Guild’s fault. He sent them out investigating, and then they told us. How do _you_ know about it?”

“Because I do,” said Valkyrie, and this time looked at Ghastly. He smiled at her ruefully.

“I haven’t had a chance to get that far yet.”

“Get what far?” Rover demanded, gesticulating so wildly that either his mug was empty or he was using magic to keep liquid in, because there was no way it wouldn’t have gone flying otherwise. “Valkyrie knows? How come _Valkyrie_ knows? This is discrimination!”

“Against whom?” Anton asked, all gravelly deep, and thick-voiced in a way which reminded Valkyrie why he’d been so quiet lately.

“Against people likely to cry at the thought of something bad happening to Descry,” Rover said promptly.

“So, all of us, then,” said Dexter, and looked at Skulduggery. “Present company excepted.”

“Thank you,” said Skulduggery, and adjusted his hat. “Get what far, Ghastly?”

“Valkyrie agrees with Guild,” said Ghastly simply, and there was a moment where everything stopped, and the Dead Men looked at Ghastly, looked at Valkyrie, and then looked at each other. Bliss just looked at Valkyrie, so she looked back at him instead of the others, meeting his cold blue gaze and sipping her hot chocolate, and saying nothing.

“Interesting,” said Bliss, very softly. “Why?”

“Because if you guys die,” said Valkyrie, “it’ll be my generation who has to fight Mevolent, and it’s not fair if you all dump the burden of dealing with the other nations on our laps because you were all too scared to deal with it yourselves.”

“Ouch,” Saracen muttered, and Ghastly shrugged ruefully.

“Essentially.”

“I’m offended,” said Skulduggery.

“By _what_ , dead man?” Rover demanded.

“On Hopeless’s behalf,” Skulduggery added, and turned to him. “How is it that a sixteen-year-old can be wiser than a man with a world full of minds and logic at his disposal? I’m aghast, Descry, _aghast_.”

“No, that’s him,” said Dexter, pointing to Ghastly, and at least three of them dissolved into scattered laughs, Valkyrie included.

‘I’m old,’ said Hopeless with a smile, ‘and set in my ways. Sometimes it takes someone younger and brimming with vigour to see the obvious.’

“Does that mean you’ll do it?” Valkyrie asked, and Hopeless’s eyes creased, in something not quite a smile. So did Erskine’s, in something that _definitely_ wasn’t a smile.

‘It’s not that easy,’ Hopeless said.

“But it _is_ that simple.”

Hopeless nodded and said nothing, and no one made him say anything else. Valkyrie really couldn’t imagine being in his position. She remembered when Skulduggery first told _her_ about his magic. Sometimes she wondered why. Sometimes she figured it was because a lot had happened. Maybe Hopeless had said he could, Valkyrie didn’t know.

But there had to be a point where it had to stop. And she’d gotten over it. The old gits of the other Sanctuaries could stand to learn something.

The quiet was comfortable enough, at least, if thoughtful. Even Rover was quiet, scowling down into his mug, and Valkyrie couldn’t tell if it was because he was scowling at the thought or he was scowling at the mug being empty.

Then she saw Hopeless cover his mouth and his shoulders shaking, and Rover’s smirk, and knew it was just because Rover was _quietly_ being funny. Valkyrie grinned.

The sound of Kara’s footsteps on the floor in the lobby was loud, and when she came back in she was a little breathless, and looked around at them all suddenly unsure. “Um.” She lifted her phone. “Mum texted me Kenny’s address. I think she’s been kind of worried about him.”

“Excellent,” said Skulduggery. “Dexter, take notes.”

“Excuse you,” Dexter objected, “why am I relegated to note-taking duty?”

“Because I am obviously now your mentor, and I told you so.”

“Hey,” said Valkyrie. “I thought you were _my_ mentor!”

“I can be a mentor to more than one person.”

“I think I should just get a promotion,” said Valkyrie. “I’m solving all your cases for you. I should get a _pay-rise_.”

“Talk to the Grand Mage,” said Skulduggery, and Hopeless laughed silently. Dexter threw up his hands and conjured a pen and paper with an ease that made Kara look envious, the pen poised over page.

“Shoot,” said Dexter, and wrote down the address she read off her phone. “Great. Who’s going to accost — excuse me — _visit_ him, then?”

“I’m not missing out this time,” Valkyre objected.

“Yes, Valkyrie found this lead,” Skulduggery agreed unexpectedly, “and a charming young lady might soften Dunne’s obstinacy.”

“I thought you were taking _Valkyrie_ ,” Saracen objected, so Valkyrie threw her empty mug at him, and he caught it laughing.

“I want to be there too,” said Erskine. “If he knows about —” He glanced at Kara. “— certain things Lynch knew, then someone needs to be taking care of that.”

“Wonderful. Shall we go, then?”

Hopeless clapped, a sharp sound that made half of them jump and Rover make a noise like a squeaking balloon. ‘Not tonight,’ Hopeless signed. ‘Some of us are young ladies who still need all the rest we can get, and at least one of us has already been up all right.’

He looked, very pointedly, at Erskine, who winced. “Oh, yeah, I didn’t get much sleep last night. Tomorrow, then?”

“Val,” Kara whispered, tugging on Valkyrie’s sleeve. “Gail’s tomorrow, remember? That specialist?”

Valkyrie deflated. “Oh, yeah. I don’t want to miss that.” She scowled thunderously down at her hands, in lieu of having a mug. “Have a work-life balance is _hard_.” Most of the Dead Men laughed. The ones that didn’t were grinning when she looked up, even Skulduggery, though he didn’t really count. She scowled at all of them instead. “Shut up, you know what I mean.”

‘We do,’ said Hopeless, ‘know _exactly_ what you mean. What are you going to do, then?’

Valkyrie paused for a moment, sifting through process. “Farley said after lunch, didn’t he?”

“Uh huh.” Kara nodded, looking a little anxious and casting glances toward the Dead Men. Valkyrie ignored that, for the moment.

Tomorrow was a school day, too. Originally they were all going to go into school together, and they were going to cut early to go visit Gail. Something had to give.

… It was going to be school.

“I’ll be okay in the morning, first thing,” Valkyrie said at last. “I’ll be late for school, or I might not make it to school, but then I’ll still have time to visit Gail with the rest of you, after lunch.”

Rover gasped theatrically. “Skipping _school_?! They’ll send the truancy officers out!”

“Goon,” said Valkyrie again, smiling. “They don’t have truancy officers anymore.”

“Nuts.”

“Anyway, it’s just one day.”

“On top of today,” said Anton, and Valkyrie winced.

“Okay, okay, I’ll do a lot of homework on the weekend, you can hold me to it. I’ll make it up, I promise. I’ve been really good about school the last six months, anyway.”

"That’s true,” said Skulduggery, “though your parents are the ones who get to decide, so if they get angry at _us_ , I’m directing them to _you_.”

“You say that like my parents are scary.”

“Your mother threatened to dismantle me and donate my bones to a puppy breeding centre. Horrifyingly, she has the Sanctuary resources at her disposal to do so.”

Valkyrie laughed, and so did Kara, if more quietly. “Yeah, that’s fair. I’ll talk to Mum and Dad about it tomorrow at breakfast.”

“Good.” Skulduggery nodded. “I’d hate to wind up as dog-toys.”

“Oy,” Rover protested. “Toys are fun. What about that time we used your knucklebones for dice?”

“That’s exactly the time I was thinking of,” said Skulduggery, and Valkyrie grinned as they dissolved into petty banter, getting up and stretching. She still felt a bit pumped, but the sort that would slide easily into weariness in short order.

“Good night, Dead Men,” she said with a wave, and received a chorus of ‘good nights’. “And Elder Bliss.”

“Good night, Ms Cain,” said Bliss, and Valkyrie turned and dragged Kara out of the kitchen, back toward the stairs. It took Kara fully half the lobby’s distance to catch her balance, and when she finally righted herself she was grinning hugely.

“Is it always like that?”

“Always always.” Valkyrie smiled. “They’re really not all that intimidating once you’ve seen them be idiots more than twice.”

“Says you,” said Kara. “I grew up on stories like that, you know.”

“Says the person getting one-on-one tutoring from Dexter today,” Valkyrie shot back, and Kara’s eyes widened, and she laughed.

“I kind of did, didn’t I? I guess I can get used to them, then.” She paused for a moment as they went up the stairs, and then said wistfully, “I wish Gail was here.”

Valkyrie’s heart stumbled over itself, and she leaned against the railing. “Yeah,” she admitted, “me too.”

“She was always kind of the odd one out,” said Kara contemplatively, looking down at the kitchen door, where laughter can be heard from across the floor. “Me and Natalie always knew each other, and Ifrit was okay being an oddball, and Farley too. But Gail always seemed to be watching on the outside-in, you know?”

Valkyrie thought about her, about some of her preconceptions when they first met. “Yeah,” she said sombrely, “I know. When I first met her she seemed to think the Club was something it wasn’t. She kept talking about — I don’t remember exactly, but it was something about not showing weakness, or something like that.”

Kara looked startled, and then thoughtful. “I guess that tracks. Sorcerer society is a lot like that, you know. If you’re strong, you’re strong. If you’re weak, expect to get beat up. I always thought it’s not much different from highschool. But when I joined the club, it was because it was a special safe place just for us.”

“Neither of them has to be like that,” said Valkyrie quietly, and Kara looked again down the stairs, and nodded.

“Yeah. I like the thought that it doesn’t. Natalie sometimes puts on a tough front, like Farley’s. Ifrit’s a lot better at adapting, I think. I didn’t know Gail thought of the club like that … but then again, if it weren’t for you, I’m not sure we would have gone to visit her. Maybe we’d have just forgotten she existed.”

Valkyrie thought of her aunt, and winced. “I know what you mean. I keep being surprised by Carol, and my aunt and uncle. They live so far away.”

“I wonder,” Kara started, and then stopped, and frowned, glancing sideways at Valkyrie.

“What?”

“I was just thinking,” Kara said slowly, “that magical society is pretty screwed up. We spend a lot of time hiding, and it makes us distrustful, even of each other. And I was thinking that I’d like to — do something. To change that. To … lead people. Somewhere else.”

Valkyrie thought of how Kara was aiming for a magic which was all about changing things, shaping things, and was startled by a surge of — envy? Was that envy? Maybe. Kara was really indecisive a lot of the time. Somehow, Valkyrie hadn’t thought of her as the one who thought about _why_ she was doing what she was doing.

Maybe that was why she had a hard time choosing, if everything needed to be meaningful. “Is that why you picked Eve?”

Kara’s cheeks reddened a little. Not as much as Gail’s would have, Valkyrie thought, and then felt glad she remembered at least that much.

“Yeah,” said Kara. “I know I’m not really good at leading. I take too long to decide things. You saw me with the dress at Mr Bespoke’s.”

Well, now Valkyrie felt guilty for thinking it. “You can learn not to be indecisive.”

“Maybe,” said Kara, “but I think it’s more that I don’t have to go anywhere alone. These days, the Club feels a lot less like after-school care and a lot more like something that will change my future. And I like that. And a lot of that is because of you, Val, so.” She shrugged awkwardly, and smiled. “I guess I’m trying to say ‘thanks’, and also, if there’s anything I can do to help again, let me know. I like the idea that I can contribute. And it’s like the Grand Mage said today. Being part of a group is like — being part of a big hug that never stops. It’s kind of sappy, but … I like it.”

“Me too,” said Valkyrie, and immediately went red, because two years ago she would never have imagined saying that out loud to _anyone._ She cleared her throat, and managed a smile, and fist-bumped Kara’s shoulder. “Come on. Let’s get to bed. We’ve got things to do tomorrow.”

“We do too,” said Kara, and grinned at her, kind of wry and kind of awkward. “Good night, Val.”

“Night, Kara.”

They went to their separate rooms, and Valkyrie flopped on her bed and curled up, wondering how she could have been ambushed by something so sincerely genuine it almost hurt.


	20. Bump in the night

Tesseract sat in the bushes outside General Deuce’s house. It was fairly uncomfortable, owing to the roots and twigs sticking into him and the dirt getting caught in the seams of his armour. It was also the best he was going to get, this close to the house.

There had been some kind of party on. Tesseract had not gotten too close to determine what kind of party, except that it was joyful. Ordinarily he would find it a pity to interrupt such a party with a murder, and still not let it stop him. Now he sat in the dirt and wondered.

He had been wondering a lot, lately. It was more uncomfortable than his current seat.

What _did_ a mind-reader feel, during a party made of joy?

Tesseract prided himself on his research of his targets. It was, in great part, a reason for his success. Now it was becoming a nuisance.

His phone rang. He ignored it. It was the second time it had rung since he settled where he was. His employer was getting impatient.

_Come work for me_ , Hopeless had said. Tesseract wasn’t in the habit of breaking his contracts. Ever. But when he turned the offer over in his mind, he could find few flaws. The contract would not be annulled: simply taken over by someone else, and … amended. There was nothing in Tesseract’s value system which objected to that. Any living assassin knew that one must adapt.

The ones that didn’t weren’t living.

He watched the lights in the house, stirring only faintly to stretch his muscles slowly, one by one. He had been here all afternoon, just another creature in the woods surrounding Deuce’s home. Tesseract could not be sure it was working. It hadn’t worked at the coffee-shop, and that had been an urban environment. He _should_ be able to fade into the background noise of the city.

It still seemed his best chance. It was just that it no longer seemed to be effective. His first approach to Hopeless had been the his best chance of success. Now the Grand Mage knew his mind.

Still Tesseract waited. He had spent a great deal of time observing Hopeless. He had found his cottage. He knew the man appreciated his solitude, and his peace, and walks in the woods with, if Tesseract was unfortunate, Ravel by his side. Rarely more than one of the others, if not Ravel. Almost certainly, it would be someone. They would be less dangerous than the mind-reader.

Tesseract’s phone rang again. He scanned his surroundings. They hadn’t put out a guard, that he could see, at least not during the day. Sometime after night fell Tanith Low had emerged only to guard the door. She had been easy to avoid, though it was a pity she was also too far to easily kill without notice. Tesseract had been moving slowly around the house’s grounds to determine what kind of protections General Deuce might have.

For now, the situation was quiet, and he was a fair distance away from Low. Tesseract picked up the phone.

“So this is what Tesseract has come to,” says Bisahalani coldly. He sounded fairly furious. Perhaps he wasn’t used to being ignored.

“I was not in a position to easily answer calls,” said Tesseract. Technically, he still wasn’t. He kept his mind blank, listening to the hum of night insects and the cooing of an owl, and maintaining peacefulness and quiet. There was nothing to hear, except the sounds of the wood. Bisahalani’s voice was simply another form of background noise.

Tesseract couldn’t be sure it was working, but it was still his best weapon.

“You’ve had the contract for months,” said Bisahalani, “and appear no closer to fulfilling it.”

“If you felt there was someone else capable of performing this task, you would have hired them,” said Tesseract.

“Everyone falls given enough pressure, Tesseract. _Everyone_.”

The phone clicked off. If Tesseract wasn’t mistaken, that was very definitely a threat. His thumb eased to the ‘call end’ button, his gaze on Tanith Low.

Her phone rang. The sound of it was incongruous in the night, with all Tesseract’s focus on the natural sounds, the white noise. _Cellblock Tango_ , if he recalled correctly.

She answered it. Tesseract couldn’t hear the other side of the conversation from here, and Low said nothing; but her gaze snapped to the bushes, scanning slowly his hiding place. She stepped away from the door, staying within the light, and stopped at the edge of it. Still too far to reach in time, and no need to kill in such a way. It would be messy, and inelegant, and gain Tesseract nothing.

Her gaze scanned the bushes more slowly still. “Hopeless says you can come in,” she said, “if you’re tired of sitting out in the dirt.”

She turned and went back to the door, pocketing her phone and with her hand on her sword, and waited.

Tesseract assessed. Bisahalani had very clearly run out of patience. Even Tesseract, faced with enough foes, would find it difficult to survive. It would be a nuisance to have to run forever from a man with no concept of failing and failing better. Such an employer was Tesseract’s least favourite: the kind who was intolerant of failing, but intolerant in the worse possible way.

Tesseract was not accustomed to being in this position. It wasn’t the least bit comfortable, and he was becoming aware that powerful men who felt their will should dominate others tended to try and make that happen, even against all logic.

When compared to a man who looked Tesseract in the face and offered him work, who released him willingly …

Hopeless was quite possibly the most frightening person Tesseract had ever met. And he was not in the habit of running from his very few fears.

Tesseract stirred and rose, some leaves drifting off his armour. He stretched his limbs before wading out of the pushes, and Low’s head snapped around at the movement. She did not relax when she saw it was him, only stepped away and jerked her head at the door.

“You first,” she said, drawing her sword. It wasn’t much of a deterrent, but it would lend her a bit of speed if she had to use it. If. Tesseract couldn’t, right now, see a circumstance in which that would be necessary.

He entered the house and paused in the lobby to listen to the sound of voices coming from the door to the side, conscious of Low behind him. He followed the voices, and his steps were echoed by Low’s, close behind.

Someone came to the door. Vex looked at him, then looked back.

“Honey, visitor for you,” he said.

“For _me_?” gasped Larrikin, and then Tesseract was in the doorway, filling it, and Vex backed away to give him space. The conversation died. Tesseract surveyed the room.

All the Dead Men, and Mr Bliss, and Low at his back. He could _maybe_ have taken them, and escaped — maybe; Bliss lowered his chances considerably — if it weren’t for the fact that one of the Dead Men was a mind-reader.

“Good evening, Tesseract,” said Hopeless pleasantly, pouring a cup of tea. He was sitting on the counter. It was oddly childish for a dignified man.

“You’re still frightening,” said Tesseract.

“I know,” said Hopeless with a smile which Tesseract could not tell was false or real, and without moving his lips. Ravel crossed his arms, glaring thunderously. Tesseract took note of that. People with intense feelings would make mistakes, unless they were men like these, in which case they acted with sharp precision and a lack of predictability. “You’ve considered my offer.”

“I can’t believe you’re offering a _job_ to _Tesseract_ ,” someone muttered from a corner. Tesseract didn’t look over. It was probably Rue, whose magic was unknown. Tesseract had long been curious about him.

“I assume it isn’t a contract,” said Bliss. Him, Tesseract had met before. The man was still alive after the fact; they both were. That said enough.

“It isn’t,” said Hopeless. “I asked Tesseract to be my bodyguard.”

Fully half the room rolled their eyes or sighed. This was, it seemed, something to be expected of the Grand Mage.

“What about Tanith?” Larrikin protested. Tesseract had not met him before, but wanted to: a man so spry it was said he had no bones at all. He was certainly looking rigid on the table, looking down at Tesseract with great distaste. “What, suddenly Tanith’s not good enough for you?”

“Tanith is going to be needed elsewhere,” said Hopeless.

“ _Where_?”

“I need the extra help,” said Ravel, and Larrikin scowled at him, and flopped back.

“Stupid faery prince, stealing all Descry’s bodyguards.”

“I’m not stealing _Tesseract_ ,” Ravel muttered.

“You said you’d tell us who Tesseract’s employer is if we don’t try to kill him as soon as he’s in the room,” said Bespoke. A big man, and one good with his fists, Tesseract remembered. He was also one Tesseract had wanted to meet, and fight. 

“Isn’t it obvious?” said Skulduggery Pleasant, the man made of bones, whom Tesseract had never feared, unlike some. Another he had wanted to meet.

The room groaned. “Do you have to be an ass about it?” Rue asked.

“I have none, so I need to find my jollies somewhere, Rue,” said Pleasant, and turned to Hopeless. “It’s Bisahalani, isn’t it?”

Hopeless nodded. “Tesseract’s done a good job hiding it, but every time he got close I was able to read a little more.”

“It took you this long?” Bliss asked.

“Tesseract’s mind doesn’t feel like yours does, Bliss,” said Hopeless, “and I couldn’t exactly sit down with Tesseract to have a chat, since he would have tried to kill me. I had to gather my information slowly, under the circumstances.”

“What does Bliss’s mind feel like?” Vex asked, and Hopeless ignored this to hop down from the counter and come to Tesseract, well within arm’s reach, to offer him the cup. Tesseract looked at him. Tall, narrow, easily breakable, and walking within Tesseract’s reach as if he knew that Tesseract would not make an attempt. Because he did.

“Please sit down,” said Hopeless, indicating the chair by the door, and Tesseract sat, conscious of the man lingering in the corner who was taller even than Tesseract. Shudder, the gist-user. Tesseract had heard he’d succumbed to his gist, but here he was, walking and if not talking than not attacking anyone. Looking at the flat trembling fury on his face as he looked at Tesseract, Tesseract had to wonder about the truth.

Low stationed herself on the chair on the other side of the door, seated sideways and with sword still bared, and eyes on Tesseract — as conscious of her duty as she had been the last time they’d met.

“So,” said Rue, “are we going to discuss this whole ‘Bisahalani is trying to murder Hopeless’ thing or just call it a night?”

“Given the threat of nuclear annihilation, I’m all for discussing it,” said Ravel. “Congratulations, Descry, you’re just that much of a cockroach.”

“I try,” said Hopeless with a smile, and dropped a straw in the mug, and took a sip, before handing it to Tesseract. Tesseract smelled chocolate. Tasted it. Tasted like chocolate too.

The Grand Mage didn’t seem the type to poison people. He hadn’t made Tesseract trust the assumption.

“Nuclear annihilation?” he asked.

“Sensitive vision,” said Rue succinctly, and turned to Hopeless. “I thought Tesseract didn’t cancel contracts.”

“He doesn’t, and he won’t,” said Hopeless. “We’re just changing it around a little bit.”

“We are?” said Larrikin, squinting at Tesseract suspiciously. He’d seated himself on the edge just the same way Low had on the chair, save that his feet kicked the air. “Does it include stipulations about the outfit? Cos, I’m just saying, if you’re going for titillating —”

More groans. “ _Rover_.”

“What? I’m just _saying._ What possible reason is there to wear something all-over unless you’re _trying_ to make people imagine what’s underneath?”

“Tesseract has a medical condition,” said Hopeless.

“What, and it involves having to wear masks all day long? Where’s the fun in that?”

“More like it involves ‘falling apart at the seams’,” said Hopeless, and there was a moment of stillness, and Larrikin’s face scrunched. Hopeless smiled at him, patting his knee and leaning back against the table edge. “Mhm. Pretty much. And finding the medicine for it is _hard_.”

“It’s too bad we don’t have access to a highly-regarded magical-medical practitioner or anything,” said Vex, and snapped his fingers. “Oh, _wait_.”

“You’re talking about Kenspeckle Grouse,” said Tesseract.

“Yes. I am.”

“I can ask Grouse to look into your situation,” said Hopeless, “and we can use Sanctuary funds to help pay for the medical attention as part of your wage.”

Tesseract had never had a _wage_ before. He turned the thought and feeling over slowly in his head. It was a neat arrangement. It would put his health in Hopeless’s hands, and ensure Tesseract wouldn’t be able to afford betraying him.

“We both know that you could find a way around that, if you really wanted to,” said Hopeless. “But you’re getting old, and medicine’s getting hard to find, and a man with your reputation — after a while, it stops being practical to have to stick that rigidly to expectations, don’t you think?”

“Is it just me or is Descry about to give a therapy session to a hardened assassin?” Larrikin asked Vex in a stage whisper.

“I don’t know about that,” said Vex. “ _My_ therapy session didn’t look anything like this.”

Hopeless was smiling slightly, but he kept his gaze on Tesseract. Tesseract didn’t say anything. It was true, his reputation had got a bit burdensome — his conversation with Bisahalani being a case in point. It wasn’t that Tesseract was beginning to fail contracts regularly. This would be the first. But for the first time, he had been given opportunity to wonder if this was all there was.

“Everyone,” said Hopeless, “needs a purpose.”

“I like killing people,” said Tesseract, and Larrikin shuddered.

“Oh, ick. Can we toss him out now?”

“Not yet,” said Hopeless, and still his gaze hadn’t moved. “You’re _good_ at killing people, Tesseract. That’s not quite the same thing. Everyone in this room is _good_ at killing people.”

It wasn’t the same thing. But for Tesseract’s purposes it mostly hadn’t mattered. He had always been alone anyway, and quite liked it like that. Well, aside from his cat. But it was getting difficult, with mortal sensibilities, to move back and forth between his home and his targets.

“The world’s changing,” said Hopeless. “People who can’t fit into it anymore tend not to last very well. Bisahalani thinks he can make the world fit his own specifications using force of will. He’s wrong.”

It was almost the same thing Tesseract had been thinking earlier.

“You’re eerie.”

Hopeless smiled slightly. “I’ve been told that, yes.”

“I don’t know how to protect.” It was an assent. Tesseract knew it, Hopeless knew it. It was a hard thing ,for a man in his line of work, to look down the past of a long industrious career and start wondering about the point of it all.

“You can learn,” said Hopeless.

“ _He_ can learn,” Larrikin muttered. “ _He_ can?”

“He’s alive right now, isn’t he?” said Hopeless sensibly.

“It’s true,” said Bliss. “Tesseract has always been adaptable.”

“So we’re really doing this?” Rue asked. “We’re really hiring _Tesseract_ as the Grand Mage’s bodyguard? Assassins don’t mean good bodyguards.”

“I don’t know how to protect,” Tesseract agreed.

“You can learn,” Hopeless repeated. “Someone as adaptable as you is capable of learning something other than killing.”

“I don’t need you to save me.”

“But I might need _you_ to save _me_ ,” said Hopeless simply, and Tesseract went quiet, while some of the Dead Men argued around him. It didn’t sound like the kind of arguing where anyone was trying to change anyone’s mind. It was the kind of arguing where something was going to happen whether they liked it or not, and they were getting the ‘not’ out early and fast.

It was an odd feeling, knowing that he might hold Hopeless’s life in his hand, but not in the way that Tesseract was accustomed to doing.

A new feeling.

He had not felt new feelings in a long time.

“I will work for you,” said Tesseract finally, and the arguments around him went quiet as they all looked to him, and then looked to Hopeless. Hopeless smiled.

“Thank you,” he said, and he sounded genuine about it, and that too was an odd thing. "I’ve had Tipstaff draft a contract. If you go to the Sanctuary tomorrow, we can finalise the rest. I imagine it’ll be a good idea to use your contract with Bisahalani as a foundation.”

“It’s the contract we’re amending,” said Tesseract. That part was important. Hopeless nodded, unsurprised.

“Barring any surprises, you’d start tomorrow too.”

“That is acceptable.”

“Wonderful,” said Pleasant. “Now that’s out of the way, I don’t suppose you can tell us what Bisahalani is planning?”

Tesseract gazed at him. He gazed back. It was difficult to intimidate a man with no eyeballs, no flesh, no skin. Tesseract liked to think he was succeeding nonetheless.

The truth was that he didn’t know much about Bisahalani’s plans. He had been hired to kill the Irish Grand Mage Hopeless, and nothing else. But it had become clear that Bisahalani felt he was on a time pressure, and Tesseract’s failure to remove Hopeless from office had been throwing wrenches in his plans. What, precisely, they entailed Tesseract could not be sure; but he did know he was hired to murder Marr, Bisahalani’s own employee, and thus Bisahalani’s plans had been in motion for signifiantly longer than Tesseract had been hired.

“My contract with my employer stands until tomorrow,” he said.

“Of course it does,” said Pleasant without surprise. “No wonder Hopeless wanted you.” He turned toward Hopeless. They all turned without Hopeless. Hopeless looked at Tesseract.

“So that’s why he sent Marr here,” said Hopeless slowly.

“Why?” said Bespoke, immediately.

“I imagine,” said Ravel, “it was to get the Irish community to turn on Hopeless. She told Guild, didn’t she?”

“Yes, and then she tried to have him kidnapped,” said Hopeless, “and involved Gail.”

“ _Bisahalani_ was involved in all that?” Larrikin demanded. “ _Bisahalani_? That wasn’t the person trying to stop us from rescuing Skulduggery? That was _Bisahalani?_ ”

“Please stop saying Bisahalani,” said Bespoke.

“Why?”

“Because you keep pronouncing B as a P and it’s going to make me laugh inappropriately.”

Larrikin grinned. “Love you too, Ghastly.”

“Rover’s right,” said Skulduggery. “It doesn’t make a lot of sense. Bisahalani wouldn’t ally himself with the person we suspect was responsible for all that.”

“Not if he knew it was that person,” said Hopeless, and they all fell silent again, considering.

“Elder Kerias,” Bliss murmured, and Pleasant’s head turned slowly toward him.

“What about her?”

“When she approached me there was very clearly an ulterior motive. She spoke of a ‘group of sorcerers’, not of the American Sanctuary.”

“So Kerias might be leading Bisahalani by the nose,” said Vex, “and in the process leading him to conclusions m —” he glanced at Tesseract. “— this other person might be wanting.”

“In which case Bisahalani is the weapon,” said Shudder low over Tesseract’s shoulder. Tesseract had heard he was an even man, but his voice was gutteral and hoarse, like an animal stalking the night. Why hadn’t the Grand Mage chosen him as defender? Collatoral damage, perhaps. Tesseract’s skills were more precise.

Ravel let out a bark of a laugh. “ _Bisahalani_ as a weapon? Well, it’s not wrong, I just don’t think he quite figured himself for being so manipulatable. Kerias _would_ think that’s something she could do, too.”

“You know her?” asked Pleasant.

“We’ve met,” said Ravel shortly, but Pleasant’s eyeless sight remained trained on him and Ravel folded in a surprisingly short time. “I met her a few times early on, while I was canvassing for people sympathetic to the Children of the Spider.”

“Weren’t they usually snobs and killers who think sorcerers should be on top?” Rue demanded in a cheerful way which indicated he already knew the answer.

“Yes,” said Ravel with a shrug. “I was still learning to tell the difference. Kerias is ambitious, and driven. She’s Bisahalani’s Elder, after all. But Bisahalani’s gotten set in his ways if he thinks that means she’s loyal to him.”

“He fosters a Sanctuary which encourages personal drive and competition,” said Hopeless.

“Sounds like a bunch of Slytherins,” Larrikin muttered. Everyone ignored him.

“If Kerias is the threat,” said Shudder, “then Bisahalani might still become an ally.”

His words were carefully chosen, more restrained than they had been.

“Only if he knows who we think the culprit is,” Vex objects. “For that, we’d need to tell him, and for that, we’d need proof, and even then it’s no guarantee he won’t think Hopeless is the greater threat.”

“I’m magnetising like that,” agreed Hopeless with alien calm given they’re talking about him and his life. Outside, in the main hall, a clock chimed, and they all paused to listen to it. Hopeless shook his head. “Okay. Let’s put it down for tonight. We’re all tired —”

“I’m not,” said Pleasant.

“— _most_ of us are tired and some of us are more tired than others, and have things to do in the morning, and I think we all need to clear our heads a bit.” He paused, and narrowed his eyes at Larrikin. “With things like sleeping.”

“Nuts,” said Larrikin, snapping his fingers. Hopeless shook his head again, but he was smiling.

“Skulduggery, when you and Erskine have dropped Valkyrie off tomorrow after your errand, please come back to the Sanctuary. Once Tesseract’s contract is signed, we’ll be able to discuss things more thoroughly.”

“Yay,” said Ravel, “more _talking_.” Hopeless turned and Ravel grimaced. “Sorry.”

Hopeless just laughed softly and patted his shoulder. “See, this is why you need to sleep more than every two days.”

“What are you, my mother?”

“What about Tesseract?” Low asked. Her gaze had not shifted from him, so Tesseract had not dared to shift. Quietly, he brought up the mug to finish drinking it.

“Until tomorrow, Tesseract is still our enemy,” said Pleasant, and turned his head to look at Tesseract properly. “So, once he’s finished his hot chocolate, you and I are going to escort him off the grounds.”

“Sounds fun,” said Low, fingering the hilt of her sword like the fun she had in mind was something else. Tesseract could appreciate that.

“Finished,” said Tesseract, setting down the mug.

“Excellent,” said Pleasant briskly. “Shall we go, then?”

“I’m not sure we should leave the two of you alone with him,” said Larrikin, eyeballing Tesseract in a way Tesseract had never been eyeballed before. “Someone’s virgin eyes might be horrified.”

“Whose, precisely?”

“Working on it,” said Larrikin cheerfully, and Tesseract rose. At once the tension in the room was more palpable still, except for Hopeless and Bliss. Hopeless smiled at Tesseract. Tesseract didn’t move.

“How are you speaking without your mouth?” Tesseract asked.

“That’s a secret,” said Hopeless, “for now.”

Tesseract watched him for a moment, and then nodded, and turned to follow Low from the kitchen. He was conscious of the skeleton behind him. Tesseract was familiar with bone, and how it moved, and splintered; not so much how it walked.

It wasn’t until they were outside and down the driveway that Pleasant stopped him. “If I asked for your phone, would you give it to me?”

“No,” said Tesseract.

“Contacts are valuable, I suppose,” said Pleasant, watching him. At least, Tesseract assumed he was watching him. “Bisahalani hired you to murder Marr …”

Tesseract said nothing, only watched him, and Pleasant didn’t seem to want a response. Low was also watching him. If Tesseract wanted, this would be his chance to snap his hand out, crush her breastbone, then deal with the skeleton.

He did not.

Pleasant shook himself, like he was coming out of a daze, and his skull resettled on his spinal cord. “If Hopeless hired you to kill others, would you?”

“He does not seem like that type of man,” said Tesseract, which was true. A statement of fact.

“He isn’t,” said Skulduggery. “What if someone else, say one of us, or Guild, or Bliss, asked you to kill someone? Would that be part of the contract?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“The contract relates only to the Grand Mage,” said Tesseract. “Protecting the Grand Mage is an odd but unique inversion which doesn’t annul or contravene it. Anyone else wanting me to kill someone on their behalf would need to make a new contract.”

“Could you?” Pleasant’s head tipped. “That is — would you take multiple contracts at once?”

“If they didn’t contravene each other.”

“Do you keep records of them? Written records?”

“Not once they’re complete.”

“Would you be able to say you had taken one?”

“Yes.”

“But not with whom?”

“No.”

“Hm,” said Pleasant, and turned away, out of Tesseract’s reach. Low stepped back, her gaze back on Tesseract. He could lunge and still reach one, and then the other … “Well, thank you, I suppose. Good night.”

Tesseract didn’t move as he watched them walk back toward the house.


	21. Me, the girl, and the faery prince

Kenny was, in a word, terrified.

Two days ago he’d been interviewing someone at a halfway house who claimed to have visions of the future.

Two days ago his contact had died and his body accosted suddenly, under extremely suspicious circumstances. Kenny would admit to letting his nose for news rule him above grief, but that wasn’t a reason to target a man, right?

But then yesterday there had been on the news the footage of the halfway house being burned to the ground, and the sudden acute awareness that, for all Kenny’s intent to be better about his internet protocols and privacy, he really never did anything about it; and now, probably, his entire search history was laid bare to whoever dealt with things like that.

And now there were people knocking on his door.

And one of them matched the face of the man Kenny had been researching on the internet.

He peeked out the gap in the windowsill again, trying to avoid moving the curtains. It wasn’t a good view, but by shifting incrementally Kenny could get a good _enough_ look at the three people on the stoop.

One of them was _definitely_ a faery. One of them, tall and thin, was almost certainly not human, if that was possible, because his whole face was covered by a scarf. Other than that, he looked like a 1930s private eye, complete with the hat. 

“Maybe he’s not home,” said the girl, the one who _looked_ like a teenager, but who could tell with faeries?

“He’s home,” said the tall thin one.

“How can you tell? No car in the driveway — he doesn’t have one, judging by what we’ve heard. The curtains are all drawn, so we can’t see if there’s light inside. No movement. The curtains haven’t even twitched.” Kenny felt a surge of vindication.

“The door’s locked,” said the thin man.

“People usually lock their doors when they leave the house,” said the faery, sounding amused.

“And bolted, and there’s a padlock on the inside of the window over there.” The thin man pointed directly to the window Kenny’s at, and he ducked, his heart pounding so hard it made him feel sick. He’d put padlocks on all the windows — shiny, sturdy new ones, just in case.

“Okay,” said the girl. “Padlocks seem like a bit of overkill just for going out of the house.”

“And what does that tell you?”

“He’s not leaving the house. He’s trying to keep people out, while he’s in.”

“Exactly.” There came another knock at the door. It was less muffled than it used to be. Kenny’s doorbell hadn’t worked for years, but boy howdy, he made sure he could hear someone trying to break in.

“We could always break a window,” said the thin man. He must be a faery too. His voice was altogether too smooth to be real.

“He doesn’t have _that_ much money for us to be going around breaking things he owns,” said the faery.

“You’ve become positively pacifist, Erskine.”

Erskine. Erskine Ravel. That fit with the name Kenny had found online. It had been a search to find — in the end he’d had to listen, very hard, at some of the Taoiseach’s press conferences six months ago, and eventually heard someone say it in the background.

“I try.” The faery’s voice lifted. “Mr Dunne, we’re not here to hurt you, or in any way break you, your dependants, your property, or anything else that could be construed as breakable. Can we please come in?”

Maybe, Kenny thought madly, faeries couldn’t come in unless invited. Maybe that was where vampires got it from. Maybe as long as they were out there, he was safe. Maybe as long as he pretended they didn’t exist, he was safe.

Maybe he should get on a pony and ride to the moon.

What was he _doing_? The greatest story of all time just landed on his doorstep and he was thinking about _ponies_?

“Mr Dunne?”

“Alright,” Kenny said hoarsely, and was surprised to find that he did. He got to his feet, a bit wobbly, and lurched over to the door. “Okay, alright, I’m opening the door, please don’t break anything.”

He unbolted it, undid the padlock, unlatched the handle, and finally turned the key to pull the door open, and stood there looking at the motley group on his doorstep and acutely aware that he looked like a man who’s been terrified for the last twenty-four hours. He was pretty sure the girl wrinkled her nose.

“Come in,” he said lamely, half hiding behind the door as they filed into his house, and tried not to feel as if something looming overhead was about to fall on him at any moment.

“Nice place,” said the thin man, and all of them stared.

“Who are you, and what have you done with Skulduggery?” the girl demanded. The thin man reached up to adjust his hat.

“I’m trying something new. It’s called kindness, or courtesy, or something starting with a K sound.”

“Why?”

“I’m a role model,” said the thin man, and Ravel laughed, and came in more properly, looking at Kenny. Kenny immediately wished he wouldn’t.

He had golden eyes. Just straight-up golden, like something out of a sunset, or molten lava, or autumn leaves, or or or —

Kenny never wondered before if he might be gay, but in that moment, he had to question the assumption that he wasn’t.

Ravel held out his hand. “Erskine Ravel.”

“What?”

“My name,” said Ravel patiently, “it’s Erskine Ravel.”

Kenny looked down at his hand, looked at his friendly expression and the patience he exuded while holding it out, and wondered if this was a trick or real. This was the kind of man who went to parties to schmooze with celebrities and badmouth the press, not offer his hand to a down-and-out reporter.

Dazedly Kenny reached out to shake it, then realised his own was sweaty and grimy. Cursing a little, he tried to rub it off on his shirt before giving up and shaking Ravel’s hand anyway. Ravel didn’t bat an eyelash, only shook it back, smiled, and gestured toward the rest of the house.

“Why don’t we sit down? I can make some tea, if you have any. Or at least something to drink. You look like you could use one.”

“Yeah,” said Kenny, still feeling dazed. Then he remembered that there was someone who might be underage in the house and added, “Uh, I have coffee, I think?”

It was probably a bad idea to set a precedence for a kid, right?

“Coffee,” said the girl, “sounds great.”

“Haven’t you had enough this morning already?” asked the thin man.

“You’d think so, but no. Rover kept stealing it, so I got none and he got, like, five.”

Ravel winced. The thin man tipped his head. “So that’s why you were in a hurry to leave.”

“I’m incorrigible like that,” said the girl, and went toward the kitchen as if this were her house and Kenny were the guest.

“Who …?” Kenny started.

“Valkyrie Cain,” said Ravel, and motioned at the thin man. “And —”

“Detective Inspector Me,” said the thin man Ravel had, earlier, called Skulduggery.

“You are _not_ ,” said Ravel in tones of exasperation, but they were moving toward the kitchen now. Kenny didn’t know when he started walking, but that was where they were headed, so he went along. The girl, Cain, rifled through his cupboards. Kenny stared.

Were all faeries this rude, he wondered.

“It’s the name that I’m registered with the Department with,” said Me.

“It is _not_.”

“It is. See?” From somewhere in his suit, Me produced a flip-up badge like the garda used, and Ravel looked down at it. Looked down some more. Looked up at his friend.

“You registered yourself,” he said in tones of great resignation, “as Detective Inspector Me.”

“Yes.”

“ _Why_?”

“I thought it might be less obvious,” said Me, and the girl laughed, and pulled her head out of a cupboard with a jar of coffee in her hand. She was, Kenny saw with some small embers of indignation, _on_ his counter.

“Found the coffee,” she announced. “Where’s the kettle?”

“Um …”

“Saucepan?”

“Um.” Kenny looked around his kitchen, at the take-away wrappers and the pizza boxes, and the general detritus of too many late nights trying to get a lead, and not enough discipline to cook for himself.

“I think I know why you’re having a hard time with money,” said Cain, and started opening all his cupboards. “Never mind, I can find it.”

“Is she always like this?” Kenny asked Ravel and Me desperately.

“What, this?” Ravel looked at Cain.

“She’s on her best behaviour,” promised Me. Kenny looked at the girl who might not be a girl going through his kitchen, dumping trash near the overflowing trash bin, and setting up for coffee Kenny hadn’t been totally sure he _had_. 

This was her best behaviour?

… Well, she was kind of helping clean up, he guessed.

“… Can I see that badge again?” he tried, feeling like he ought to at least be doing a bare minimum of making sure they were who they said they were, though how he was meant to determine that faeries were faeries he had no idea. Me handed over the badge while Ravel, instead of sitting down, started helping Cain clean up, leaving Kenny feeling intensely awkward and acutely aware of people moving around a kitchen that had never had people moving around in it.

He focused on the badge instead. At least this was something he knew, garda badges: and he spent a lot time looking at it _intently_ , partly to avoid having to admit what a mess his house was, that someone else was cleaning up, and partly because — there had to be a trick there, somewhere. Right?

If there was, Kenny concluded, he couldn’t find it. It looked like a real badge. He handed it back to Me, nodding with as much dignity as he could — which was to say, not very much. “Thank you.”

“You’re very welcome,” said Me, as Ravel brought over mugs to set them down on the cleared table.

“Your milk’s curdled,” he said.

“I know.”

“But you have some long-life milk in the cupboard, so good thinking there.”

“I do?” Kenny cleared his throat trying to modulate his surprise. “I mean. Of course I do.”

Ravel smiled a little. “Don’t worry. I’ve been to visit a lot of people who find it hard to keep a tidy home.”

‘Untidy’ was being generous. Kenny didn’t want to point it out.

“Hell, once upon a time I probably would have lived the same way.”

“Really?” asked Me. “You mean you’ve lived somewhere that doesn’t involve mooching off Deuce, Hopeless or some pretty lady somewhere?”

Ravel shot him an irritated look. Kenny couldn’t see whether Me was smug about this or not, because his face was still entirely covered by a scarf. Also, he was trying not to linger on those names. The first one alone made him sweat, but when coupled with _Hopeless_ —

What kind of faery was Ravel, again?

“I _do_ have an apartment, thank you, and believe me it took a long time before it wasn’t a slovenly cesspit.”

“How did you fix that?” Kenny asked before he could stop himself. It wasn’t that he _wanted_ to live like this. It was just that things tended to build up over time, while he wasn’t looking, and by the time he did it seemed too big to handle.

“I have a friend who helped a lot,” said Ravel, “and I was fortunate enough to trade jobs for someone willing to clean up, and, most importantly, I went to therapy to figure out what made it so hard for me to do some things like that.”

He _what_?

“But you’re a —” Kenny realised what he was about to say moments before it came out, and his tongue tried to strangle itself at the back of his throat.

“I’m a what?”

“A …” Kenny looked at them all, at the thin detective with the name Me, and the unfairly handsome faery, and the girl who waltzed into peoples’ houses to clean up after them like some shameless brownie. He coughed, feeling suddenly on the edge of a precipice he couldn’t help but throw himself over. “A faery. Aren’t you?”

Ravel sighed and took a seat, and just like that Kenny’s knees gave up the ghost and he sank into the one across from him. “Even faeries need structure and management,” Ravel said. “All those stories about unseelie courts and decadence — think about it too hard and you’ll realise all that had to come from _somewhere_. Kings and queens are kings and queens for a reason, not just because someone put out an advertisement one day. So, yes, even for us, therapy is something that happens.”

“Are you just leaning into the faery thing now?” asked Cain, grinning, and Ravel scowled at her.

“I’m choosing to decide that correcting terminology isn’t the most important thing in this conversation.”

“Here I thought correcting people calling you a faery was _always_ the most important thing in conversation.”

“In light of the fact that I’m an adult and you’re not,” said Ravel, “I’m choosing to ignore that remark, and also your provocation.”

Cain laughed and Kenny felt dizziness swirling, just short of a faint. It was a feeling he now knew very well, thanks to his choice to go charging after the van the other day. 

“Faeries need therapy?” he repeated, sounding a bit shocked, and knowing it, and wishing he could at least close his mouth and ask some decent questions like a real reporter should, damn it.

“Some of us need it more than most,” said Ravel.

“And you don’t like being called faeries?”

Ravel shrugged, and reached out to take the mug Cain had just poured. “It’s a bit of a misnomer. If you’re asking if there are people out there who can do things most people can’t, then yes. We don’t live under the ground —” Cain made an audible noise. “— we just generally choose to put things there because it’s the safest place to go unnoticed.” Ravel gave her a look, and she shrugged and poured another cup. “Some people call us faeries. Some people call us other things. Mostly we call ourselves sorcerers.”

“Faeries has definitely caught on lately though,” Cain added. Ravel pointedly ignored her, so Kenny did too, curling his hands around the mug of coffee. He couldn’t quite muster the will to take his gaze off Ravel.

Finally, after all this time, _answers_! Someone talking to him openly, without guardedness! This was like the holy grail of reporting needs, right here!

“I saw you standing with the Taoiseach six months ago,” he said, and Ravel paused. Me let out a quiet chuckle. Ravel’s mouth tugged, but there seemed to be resignation there.

“I tried to stay out of the cameras,” he admitted.

“But the Taoiseach does know about you?”

“Yes,” said Ravel. “Actually, I helped him get elected.”

Kenny, who had just lifted the mug to take a mouthful, choked and coughed, and made a very great effort not to spray it across the table, with the result that it came out through his nose instead. And it was —it was _very hot._

Coughing and spluttering, Kenny took the tea-towel Cain put in his hand, and pressed it to his face. Breathing was hard, but that was okay, because he forgot how to when Ravel stretched out his hand and all the coffee on the table gathered itself up and dumped itself back into his mug.

Kenny tried to speak. Mostly what came out were strangled noises.

“I helped Fionn get elected,” Ravel continued, “because I believe the time has come, or will come soon, where we can’t hide from the non-magical population anymore.”

Were Kenny’s ears ringing? Did he hear that? _Was he hearing this right_? He could feel his hands reaching for a pen and some paper, and someone pushed those under his grip. Without tearing his gaze away from Ravel, he scribbled — something. He didn’t know what. He wouldn’t need it, anyway. Every moment of right now was going to be seared into his brain, _forever_.

“Go on,” said Kenny, vaguely aware of his pulse beating throughout his body, and that he was grinning so hard his face was aching. It was the only reason he noticed. “Tell me more.”

* * *

‘Everything’ took quite a long time, and at the same time, no time at all. About sorcerers. About magic. About magical beings. About the Sanctuaries. About how some of their sorcerers could wipe memories, and that was why no one ever remembered Kenny’s questions.

At some point Kenny abandoned the page, because his fingers didn’t seem to want to work, and went to fetch his tape recorder. Ravel didn’t like that, so Kenny went back to the page. Maybe he could convince him to record something later. For prosperity, or something.

He might be the only reporter getting this detail and right now all he had was his word as evidence. He wasn’t unaware of that fact, that for all Ravel was saying, Kenny had no proof beyond coffee returning itself to his mug, but right now Kenny didn’t care. He was riding on a lightning-bolt and didn’t even mind that it was going to strike something sooner or later, and it was probably going to be him, and that was why they were here after all.

Ravel told him about a secret city where faeries and mortals lived in harmony. Told him the name of it, which made Kenny splotch ink all over the page. Told him that Paul had lived there — _KNEW IT!!_ — and that they had been, like him, reaching out to people more and more, to create allies.

“So then who murdered Paul?” Kenny asked, his hand vibrating as he reached for his mug of coffee. It was his second, but it might have been his third. He kind of needed to pee, but didn’t want to get up just in case all this vanished by the time he came back.

“We don’t know yet,” said Ravel. “We have some suspicions, but it’s like suspecting a gang-member was responsible for a murder. It doesn’t narrow things down very much. Did Paul ever mention something to you — Department X?”

“Yes!” Kenny was grinning like a toddler given a ride on a Ferris wheel, and knew it, and didn’t care. “He said he worked for some secret research — thing — or something, but I _knew_ it was a cover for magic stuff!”

“Department X is the Tír’s outreach program,” said Ravel. “The thing is that its ramp-up is fairly recent, and people shouldn’t know about it. But someone murdered Paul and burned down the halfway house, so someone had to have. Did you mention it to anyone?”

“No-ooo …” But even as he spoke, Kenny’s stomach shrivelled.

“That sounded like a ‘yes’ to me,” said Cain. She was sitting on his counter again, nursing her mug of coffee. Or maybe her second mug. Kenny wasn’t sure.

“Weeeeell …” Kenny hesitated. Did he really want to tell these massively powerful people he’d screwed up without even knowing, again? Did he really want to _lie_ to them?

Ravel’s phone rang. Ravel held up a hand, glancing down at it, and then rose. “Sorry, I need to take this. Keep talking; I’ll catch up.”

They watched him leave the room and then Kenny looked hopefully back at Me and Cain. Maybe they wouldn’t make him talk while Ravel was out of the room?

“Go on,” said Me, and Kenny’s face fell.

“It was another lead. A lot of the people I talk to, you know, they aren’t — people other people care about all that much. Stick them in wards, put them out of sight, kind of thing? And abuse at nursing homes, you know, that’s massively personal-interest type stuff, that can get careers made. So I maybe keep track of people going into places like that.”

He stopped, looking back at the door. Ravel’s voice was somewhere low in his living-room, but not close enough to hear the words.

“And?” prompted Me.

“And I maybe heard about someone who was put into a nursing home who isn’t old or anything and might have a tendency to ramble about faeries …”

“Which home?” Me asked intently, and Kenny really wished he could see the man’s face, because right now it was super eerie trying to imagine what was behind the scarf and sunglasses. Reluctantly he gave them the address. “Thank you. What did you say about Department X?”

“Well, I asked why she was put in there, you know?” said Kenny uncomfortably. “Whether it was governmentally paid-for, whether it had to do with something called Department X … They didn’t let me talk to her, but I spoke to the nurses and staff as much as I could. None of them knew anything, I’m pretty sure they wouldn’t have mentioned any of it to anyone …”

Even as he was talking, he was a babbling, and also lying. People talked, all the time, and he knew how people felt about nosy reporters trying to make trouble. He really hadn’t gotten much.

At least Me seemed satisfied with that, straightening up wit ha nod. “Did you get the name of the person who was put into the home?”

Kenny screwed up his face. “Julia, I think.”

“Julia?” Cain demanded, startled, but before Kenny could say anything else Ravel came back in, looking very grim.

“We have troubles,” he said.

“Some more, you mean?” said Cain. Kenny was pretty sure it was rude for kids to talk back like that— and he was pretty sure she was some kind of faery kid, at this point — but neither Ravel nor Me reacted to it.

“Add it to the pile,” Me agreed. “What is it?”

“The Tír’s gotten word that some of their agents in the US have been murdered the same way Lynch was,” said Ravel. “They’re debating pulling out the rest or trying to add to their numbers. One of their agents in France has also been killed, and they’ve lost contact with the ones in England. I’m going to ask Tanith to look into that one; she still has friends over there, and I have one or two in their Sanctuary.”

“Good idea,” said Me. “In the meantime, Valkyrie and I need to go and investigate the lead Mr Dunne just gave us. Will you be okay here?”

Ravel looked at Kenny. Kenny looked up at him, trying not to look beseeching or pathetic or in any way as if he was vibrating off his chair. Which he might have been. Slowly Ravel nodded. “I think I’ll have to; we’re not done here, and at this point Kenny might be genuinely at risk.”

Kenny’s heart gave a thump. “Wait — what?”

“You’ve been in contact with a man who turned up murdered,” said Ravel. “If they haven’t come for you, it’s because they didn’t think you were important, but now that we’ve been here, we might have accidentally put you in harm’s way. I’m sorry about that, by the way.”

He did actually sound apologetic, and for a moment Kenny sat there digesting that. His heart gave another hard thump. Him? In danger? Because of _faeries_? “What are you going to do? Put me under faery protection?”

“You don’t need to sound so happy about it,” said Cain.

“Are you kidding?!” Kenny tried not to actually yell. He maybe failed. “This is the break of my _life_! I get to see faery processes in action! This is _great_! This is like — like I’m a _war correspondent_! Or — something.”

“You might not be wrong,” Ravel muttered, smiling, but it was the kind of grim smile that punctured Kenny’s enthusiasm more than Cain’s disbelief had. “Well, I need to figure out the best way to do that, for now, and also get some information from you. Probably you’ll wind up in the Tír, but since that requires some diplomacy ten to one I’ll have to take you to the Sanctuary first. That’s where magical society is governed.”

“Can I take recordings?” Kenny asked, this time in an awed hush, because yelling at Ravel seemed like a really bad idea, in general.

“Probably not,” said Ravel, “but you can bring pens and paper.” He took a seat at the table as Cain hopped up and put her mug in the sink. Kenny was distantly aware that the kitchen was much cleaner than it was, probably because she’d been doing stuff to it, but he was too busy picking up his pen again, grinning madly.

“Talk to you later,” said Cain, and Ravel smiled at her.

“Have fun saving the world.”

“Look who’s talking.”

Cain and Me leave, and Kenny barely noticed; his eyes were fixed on Ravel.

“Tell me more,” he said.


	22. Fuel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for deliberate, malicious mis-gendering.

The nursing home wasn’t a bad one, from the outside — at least that Valkyrie could see. Not that she’d ever really been to one of these places. She didn’t have grandparents to visit, and none of her extended family were alive to be put in them. She tried to imagine Dad or Mum in this kind of place and promptly put it out of her head.

It was an older building in Dublin, with some fancy real estate which basically meant it looked over the Liffey and had a bit of an area for a garden for the residents. It had been in operation for a while, according to the sign out front, and it had that kind of English stairs-and-balustrade entrance which made Skulduggery look eminently out of place, mostly thanks to his hat, scarf and sunglasses. At least he’d stopped wearing the frizzy hair.

There was no doorbell, but the sign invited them inside to speak to the receptionist, so they did: and inside was all cosy and quaint, with sunlight and that not-quite-stuffy smell of older buildings that were still considered charming, and should be houses but had been converted to office spaces or whatever.

An old person shuffled past while they were coming in. Valkyrie took two steps away, trying not to stare and succeeding probably a little too well.

She tried to imagine Hopeless or Anton or Corrival in a place like this, and almost burst out laughing.

The reception desk mostly looked like it belonged there. The receptionist was bright and perky and wearing modern slacks and a blouse instead of a nurse’s uniform. Maybe she wasn’t a nurse. Valkyrie didn’t know how these places worked, and apparently couldn’t imagine it.

“Good morning. Are you here to visit one of the residents?”

“Yes,” said Skulduggery, and produced his badge. Valkyrie scowled at it behind his back. He was way too proud of that thing. The receptionist took it and looked at it closely.

“Is this part of an ongoing investigation?” she asked politely. “I’m afraid that many of our residents are fairly anxious, and we can’t allow interviews without just cause.”

“It is,” said Skulduggery.

“Do you mind if I call the garda to be sure?”

“By all means.”

They moved off a few paces while she did that, and even though Skulduggery’s face was hidden, Valkyrie could tell by his stance that he was miffed. She grinned.

“What’s wrong, didn’t think you’d ever have to use it?”

“I never have before,” said Skulduggery with great dignity.

“You never had allowance from the government before.”

“I’m not sure I like this new modern way of doing things.” Valkyrie laughed. Skulduggery waited until she was done, and then asked: “You reacted to the name Kenny gave us.”

“Yeah, I did.” Valkyrie shrugged a little. In retrospect it seemed a little — dumb. Just … she had a hunch. A _feeling_. The Dead Men made sure she wasn’t in the habit of ignoring her feelings, but … come on, how big a coincidence would it have to be? “It’s just that the guy from — Erskine’s place — who helped out those terrorists and then got kidnapped? His name was Julian.”

“That seems a reach,” said Skulduggery slowly. “I assume it made you suspicious based on other factors?”

“Julian looks like a woman,” said Valkyrie, and motioned awkwardly at her chest. “That is — yeah. Everyone called him a he, but he didn’t bother making himself look like a he, if you know what I mean. Myron Stray thought he was a she when they met. It got convoluted.”

“I see,” said Skulduggery, and nodded, just once and firmly, and patted her awkwardly on the shoulder. “I’m very proud of your deductive reasoning and willingness to listen to your instincts.”

“Okay, that is just _weird_.” Valkyrie scowled at him even as she wanted to grin madly. Skulduggery said he was _proud_. Okay, he said a lot of things, but he said he was _proud_. “Seriously, what’s up with that?”

“I told you,” said Skulduggery. “I’m trying to set an example.”

The phone clicked as the receptionist put it down. “Detective Inspector Me?”

Skulduggery turned, reaching up to touch the brim of his hat. “That’s me.”

There was a brief pause while the receptionist’s brow furrowed while she tried to figure out if there was a joke in there or not, and Valkyrie stifled a laugh. “I spoke to a Detective Inspector Phil Marmot,” she said. “He mentioned you’ve been helping an arson investigation. I’m afraid that’s impossible. None of our residents have been in the vicinity of a recent fire.”

“He’s somewhat correct,” said Skulduggery with forced patience, or at least forced to someone who knew him. “However, in point of fact, I’m investigating a _murder_ , and the arson of the building Detective Inspector Marmot is investigating happens to be the location where the murder took place. As a matter of fact, the man who was murdered was also someone who may have been in and out of institutions such as this, and I was attempting to ascertain whether one of your residents knew him.”

It wasn’t totally a lie, was the great thing about it. Julian and Paul knowing each other was unlikely, but _possible_ , and it was sure convincing enough. The receptionist’s eyes widened in alarm. “Do you think one of our residents might be in danger?”

“That’s what I’d like to ascertain,” said Skulduggery.

“Who are you after? I can call their case manager to come talk to you.”

“I believe he was put here under the name of Julia.”

The receptionist paused in the process of reaching for her phone. “Julia?” she muttered, and finally picked it up. “Hello, can I please have Julia’s case worker urgently in the lobby? Thank you.” She set down the phone and looked up. “We do have a Julia who was admitted recently. You called her a he? Can you describe her?”

Skulduggery indicated Valkyrie. Valkyrie closed her eyes, breathing deeply and calling back to mind the musty air of the passage in the church, and Julian’s terrified face. The atmosphere in this place was really helping for that. It had almost the same smell. “Darker skin than me, lighter than you, corkscrew hair tied back in a bun, he used to wear it really tightly, no bangs or anything, green eyes …”

“That matches Julia’s description,” said the receptionist, looking slightly sick. “But to be honest, she — he — was brought in too incognisant to indicate gender preference.”

“Ominous,” said Skulduggery.

“I really think you’d better speak to her — his — case worker,” said the receptionist.

“I think so too. Just one last question — I don’t suppose I could see Julia’s file, before then?”

The receptionist hesitated, glancing between him and Valkyrie, and then said more firmly, “I really think you need to talk to his case worker first.”

“Of course,” said Skulduggery, but Valkyrie could tell he was a little irritated, and hid a smile. They went back to the waiting-area nook with the chairs, but it wasn’t long before someone came hurrying down, pausing at the receptionist for a quick whispered conversation before coming to them, holding out a hand.

“Detective Inspector Me? I’m Yvonne Gerard. I’m Julia’s case worker. I’m told you’re investigating a murder and might suspect Julia’s involvement?”

“Julian,” said Valkyrie, and Gerard looked at her.

“I’m sorry?”

“When I met him, he called himself Julian,” said Valkyrie.

“You’ve met him before?” Gerard asked with great interest.

“Is that a surprise to you?” Skulduggery asked.

“Frankly, yes,” said Gerard. “Julia — excuse me, Julian — was found by the garda some months ago and was processed as unable to make his own decisions. A psychologist recommended he be put in a home, because he wasn’t able to live alone, and no one was able to find friends, family, or even details about his identity.”

“How did you know part of his name, then?” asked Valkyrie, and Gerard looked at her with some confusion. Valkyrie could see her wondering why a kid got to ask questions like these, but when she glanced at Skulduggery, he said nothing, only waited patiently for a response. Eventually, Gerard answered.

“He has a tattoo on his thigh. It reads ‘Julia’, heart — and, well, suffice to say the love didn’t last very long, because whatever name had been under it had been replaced by a rose. There had been evidence of injury around it … by the time he came here, it had already mostly healed. I suppose it’s possible it could have covered up part of his name.”

“Did you take pictures of the tattoo?” Skulduggery asked.

“No, but the case-file from the garda might. I can give you the name of the investigating officer?”

“Please. I’d also like to see your file on Julian, and speak to him if I can.”

“I’d like to know more about where he came from,” said Gerard, turning, “so yes, let’s talk.”

She took them through the lobby and down a hall where there was a quiet rustle of movement and voices, all hushed like the place was a library. Glancing in through doors, Valkyrie saw mostly offices — some shared, some not — and a kitchen, and other such recreational areas. The residents must be further back, or upstairs.

Gerard’s office was an office, nothing much to look at there, and Valkyrie perched on the stool by the door, ignoring Gerard’s curious look. She pulled a file from her cabinet, and a picture from between the sheafs, and showed it to Valkyrie. “Just to be clear — this is the person we’re talking about.”

He looked different. His hair was clean but not severely bound back like it had been, and his eyes were unfocussed. That part was eerie. Valkyrie remembered Julian being pretty sharp.

“That’s him,” said Valkyrie quietly. “What happened to him? He was a researcher — neurology.”

“Was he?” Gerard’s face flickered with surprise and then regretful sadness. “Well … I can’t speak much for his analytical ability now. He talks, but it’s a lot of mumbling, and a lot of his memory has gone.”

“Any injuries to his head or brain?” Skulduggery asked.

“Not that we know,” said Gerard. “The hospital diagnosed him with traumatic amnesia. The only injuries were on his leg. Here’s the case officer’s details.” She pulled a sticky note from the file and handed it to Skulduggery.

“Thank you,” said Skulduggery, and held out his hand for the file, waiting patiently for a few moments while Gerard fussed with what was in it. She didn’t give him the whole file: just some of the papers in there. “I’d really like to see the rest.”

“I’d really like to see a warrant first,” said Gerard. “Confidentiality. That’s what I can give you.”

“Hm.” Valkyrie saw Skulduggery’s head shift to look down, and could see that he was about to argue, possibly sweet-talk her into betraying her ethics, because he was good at that — and then he stopped. His frame tensed, and then he consciously relaxed, and proceeded to leaf through the pages.

Valkyrie burned with curiosity, but said nothing as he looked through them and then handed them back to Gerard. “Thank you. I’ve changed my mind; I don’t think we need to see him.”

“We don’t?” Valkyrie blurted before she could stop herself.

“No,” said Skulduggery. “In fact, I think this might be the safest place for Julian, right now.”

“It is?” Gerard asked, equally startled. “I mean, you’re sure —?”

Skulduggery nodded decisively in that way where he was mostly convinced, but trying to convince himself the rest of the way. “Yes. In fact, I’m almost certain he was put here to keep him out of the way, in which case, moving him elsewhere might pose a risk, if it draws the wrong attention.”

“Why —?”

“I’m afraid that’s part of an ongoing investigation,” said Skulduggery, reaching for her pens and her sticky-notes. “Though I will, of course, ask that you report it immediately to these numbers if anyone should come looking or asking for Julian in future, no matter who they are — especially someone who isn’t me. The first is prefereable, but if I don’t pick up, ring the second.”

Gerard looked confused and a little frightened. Valkyrie couldn’t blame her. Her own heart was doing a tango on her ribs. Something was in that file — something important, something that made _Skulduggery_ backtrack. 

“Okay,” Gerard said, glancing down at the note Skulduggery gave her. “I can do that. Phil Marmot?”

“He’s investigating an arson of a building where a murder took place,” said Skulduggery. “If you can’t reach me, and you may not be able to, please do call him.”

“Okay …” Gerard shook her head. “Wait. What about Julian’s family, and friends? He has some, doesn’t he?”

Valkyrie opened her mouth. Skulduggery interjected smoothly before she could: “I’m afraid that’s confidential. What you should know, Ms Gerard, is that Julian was involved in some criminal persons who may or may not want him dead. So, you see, it’s better if we don’t try to reconnect him with his past life for the time being.”

“Oh …”

Skulduggery reached out to pat her awkwardly on the shoulder. “Keep it up. I’m sure Julian will be safe in your care. After all, that’s the kind of place this place is, correct?”

Gerard blinked again, and then pulled herself together and nodded firmly. “It is. Thank you, Detective Inspector. And at least we can help him feel a little more comfortable, now we know his gender preference. When your investigation is over, can you let me know? I think we’d all like to make sure Julian can reconnect with his past life as soon as it’s practically possible.”

“Certainly,” said Skulduggery smoothly, and touched the brim of his hat. “Thank you very much for your time, Ms Gerard.”

“Thank you,” Gerard echoed as Valkyrie hopped up to follow Skulduggery out. She was still burning with curiosity, but she didn’t dare to say anything until they’d left the nursing home and were safely in the Bentley, and pulled out onto the street.

“What did you see in the file?” she asked, once it seemed like they were a safe distance away. Skulduggery’s skull was loose on his spine, a sure sign he was lost in thought; but it turned toward her when she spoke.

“To be honest,” he said, “I’d rather not say.”

Valkyrie frowned. “Why not?”

“Because I might be wrong.”

“ _You_ might be wrong?” Valkyrie grinned. “You? When are you ever wrong?”

“If you’ll recall,” said Skulduggery with some longsufferingness which was closer to how he was meant to react, “I was wrong about my friends abandoning me when they found out about my deep, dark secret.”

“True. You were wrong about that.”

“And I was wrong about believing my rescue was a hallucination.”

“Truuuue …” Valkyrie drew out the word, narrowing her eyes at him. “Since when have you been _humble_?”

“I’m just pointing out an answer to your question,” said Skulduggery. “And they were fairly big errors, too. I am, more often than not, right — but when I’m wrong, it’s rather large, and in this case, I’d rather make absolutely sure I _am_ right before I start saying anything that might puncture my pride.”

Valkyrie snorted. “You’d need a battering ram.”

Still. If Skulduggery was that concerned about being wrong, it was worth not pushing. Super alarming, but she wouldn’t push. “Fine. I won’t ask. Do you really think Julian will be safer there?”

“For the time being,” said Skulduggery grimly. “The people who put him there are cruel, but thorough, ensuring he would be hidden in plain sight under an assumed gender.”

“Yeah,” said Valkyrie softly. “It is cruel.”

It was using something really personal against him, in a way that made Valkyrie’s stomach roll to think about. Not just mean-spirited, but with a sense of irony and pragmatism which messed with someone’s head. It was sick. “You think they damaged part of the tattoo to make sure the nurses would come to the wrong conclusion, don’t you?”

“I do,” said Skulduggery, “well done. My next stop, I think, will be talking to this fellow who found him.”

“And Phil Marmot?”

“And perhaps Phil Marmot.”

“You gave her his phone number, you’re not going to warn him?”

“No,” said Skulduggery thoughtfully, “I don’t think I will.”

“What now, then?” Valkyrie asked, trying not to sound too exasperated, and slowly Skulduggery’s head turned toward her.

“For one thing,” he said, “you’re now very late for school.”

Valkyrie looked at her phone clock and cursed. “I _so_ am. By the time I get there we’ll be sneaking out anyway.”

“So I should just take you to the Hibernian, I suppose?”

“Yep.” Valkyrie nodded. “That’s exactly what you should be doing. Pandora should be already there, anyway.”

“Hm, Pandora.” Skulduggery hummed and said nothing, and Valkyrie waited for the punchline that didn’t come, and finally just jabbed him in the ribs with her elbow. “Hm?”

“Come on, spill.”

“Oh, nothing,” said Skulduggery. “Just that I’m interested to meet the woman who’s researching name magic, that’s all. I imagine Gail represents a leap forward in her research.”

“So did Stray,” said Valkyrie, “and it’s just as well, or neither of them would be getting out of this.”

_And neither are you, Dead Man,_ she added, but only in her own mind. Even though Skulduggery didn’t want to say anything now, Valkyrie wouldn’t forget, and her time would come.


	23. A new mission

By the time Erskine’s phone rang again, his voice was hoarse. Fortunately, by that point he’d also been able to stop talking, because Kenny had run out of paper and was trying to put his notes into order before he forgot. It turned out that reporters asked a lot of questions — questions Erskine hadn’t even expected.

He hadn’t, Erskine reflected ruefully, actually talked to many reporters about this. Everything had been tailored to avoid anyone knowing yet, or without controls in place; now suddenly things were coming out every which way, and Erskine hadn’t actually considered what kinds of things he might need to say to the media. Or might be asked by the media.

Some of them had been hilariously off-putting, and made Erskine glad that Skulduggery and Valkyrie had already left or he would never had lived it down. Things like ‘do you use any special hair regime’, and other inanities.

It had visibly stopped him short. Kenny explained, almost apologetically, that that was the kind of thing women wanted to know about, and also he’d been told he should try to be more equal-opportunity with his questions.

Erskine could complain about either, both, and in the end had let it pass and quipped his way through that question. He couldn’t remember what he said now, but he really wanted to know, in case it had been stupid or someone was going to read too much into it; or, God forbid, a _ny_ of the Dead Men found out about it. He liked to be forewarned.

He was rescued from that thought process by his phone ringing, and answered it without opening his eyes. Kenny’s muttering and rustling of paper across the table didn’t even pause.

“Hello, Erskine Ravel speaking.”

“Hello,” said Hopeless, sounding very tired, and _now_ Erskine opened his eyes and sat up. That hadn’t been Hopeless’s ring-tone, and also Hopeless sounding that tired this early in the day meant nothing good. Erskine knew for a fact Hopeless had slept well last night.

“What’s up?”

“We have problems,” said Hopeless.

“I’ll add it to the list,” said Erskine dryly, to cover for the way his heart started pounding.

“I just got a call from Fionn. It seems that a necromantic healer by the name of Saffron Sweetgrass stumbled into the Government Buildings early this morning begging to see the Taoiseach. She had Cleric Baritone with her, but he left after making sure they’d been recognised and would be let in.”

Erskine could _feel_ something cold sinking into his gut. “Don’t tell me …”

“The necromancers are about to do something very incredibly stupid.”

Erskine sighed. “I _said_ don’t tell me.”

“If I can’t bring you into my misery, who can I call?” Hopeless asked, and there was at least a smile in his voice for a few seconds before it vanished. “I also heard from Governor Chiabuoto.”

“So did I,” Erskine admitted, glancing sidelong at Kenny. He seemed entirely too preoccupied to be concerned about a phone call across the way, but when Erskine watched closely he saw the way the reporter’s gaze was slanted, and not totally focused on his papers the way the turn of his head suggested he was. “Except it was Khutulun, not Adaeze.”

“About their agents in the US and France, and England?”

“Yep. I called Tanith and asked if she can confirm anything in England.”

“Thank you,” said Hopeless, and he sounded so grateful that Erskine almost felt guilty, for no reason he could figure out. Probably just a reflex. “While I had her on the line, I asked about Guild. He’s going to be here in a few minutes.”

“Oh, so you didn’t _just_ call me to bring me into your misery,” Erskine teased, and there was a breath where there would have been a verbal laugh, once. He’d learned to recognise it, but it still gave him a pang. "So I'm going to be part of your coordination drive, then?"

"Something like that."

"What about Dex? Saracen?" As far as Erskine knew, Saracen hadn’t gone back to the US yet.

“Oh, I’m here,” said Saracen, more distantly from the phone than Erskine was. Either Hopeless had the volume up loud or he was already on speaker.

"Dexter’s making up to Rover and helping the Edgleys pack up Corrival's house," Hopeless added, and Erskine snorted. "Tesseract is here and his contract is signed, but there wasn't much other information he could give."

Erskine relaxed a little, and was surprised that he did. He hadn't been _that_ concerned for Hopeless, in the middle of the Sanctuary. Still … At least someone was around to guard him, if Tanith wasn’t. “Tesseract being on _our_ side is an improvement, no matter which way you look at it.”

"I was hoping you'd be able to find a private place so you and Skulduggery could conference with us,” Hopeless told him.

"It'll just be me, I'm afraid," said Erskine, and grimaced. That should have been the first thing he'd mentioned; not even Hopeless could read minds over the phone. "Kenny had some information about Department X, and he might have told someone about it. Skulduggery and Valkyrie went to investigate that."

There was a pause on the other end. Erskine imagined Hopeless massaging his knuckles, and heard Saracen sigh with overdramatic long-suffering, and then the rasp of a drawer being pulled out. Good. Saracen could take care of that. The thoughtspeaker was more of a hassle for Hopeless when he overused it, and meant he said nothing about the way his hands bothered him. Luckily, neither Erskine nor Saracen were fools.

"Okay," said Hopeless finally. "Just you, then." There was a distant, tinny knock on the door, and Erskine rose to leave the table, heading toward another room in the house at least for that degree of privacy. It wasn't likely Kenny knew Irish, which added another.

He waited through the usual greetings, the sound of the door closing, and the brief static of a privacy ward.

“You need me, Grand Mage?” Guild asked brusquely, but in that careful way he had developed around Hopeless.

“I have Erskine on speaker,” said Hopeless. “We’re going to tell you what we haven’t been this whole time.”

“It’s about damn _time_ ,” said Guild, forgetting to be careful; and there’s anger in his tone, and frustration too, but less than Erskine might have thought there’d be. “That mission you put me on last year wasn’t as much of a distraction as you thought. What’s this about, then?”

“I’m sorry, Thurid,” said Hopeless, and sounded very tired, in that way he did that made anyone with even a fraction of a heart pause — even Guild.

After a moment he grunted, and Erskine smiled to himself. “Fine. I’m sure you have your reasons, and the job you had me doing was important, I suppose. What is it?”

“The short version is, about a century ago Erskine created a city where sorcerers and mortals live openly and in harmony,” said Hopeless, and the pause this time was startled. Erskine had to admit, he liked being on this side of things. Guild had probably forgotten he was even on speaker.

“… What?” This time Guild’s tone was more disbelieving, and Erskine’s smile widened.

“It was a therapy project,” Hopeless explained, “that took a life of its own. It’s called Tír Tairngire —” He paused to let Guild laugh disbelievingly. “— and the specialist looking after Gail is a researcher from the city. Up until now Erskine’s been doing the bulk of the work finding people who might need to go there, or who would fit in well there, but the Tír’s begun its own projects to reach out to people here.”

“Wait,” said Guild. “Where is it _hidden_? How? Is that where —”

Guild cut himself off, and Hopeless filled the gap.

“Shunters and dimensional shrouds,” said Hopeless and there was a pause in which Erskine really wished he could see Guild’s face.

“Hold on,” said Guild after a moment, his voice admirably neutral. “They’re performing their own outreach, you said?”

“Yes, and Paul Lynch was one of their agents,” said Hopeless. “Their program is in its early stages — seeing what kinds of people would be amenable, that kind of thing — so as far as we know, there’s no reason for anyone to want to murder people for it, any more than they would have wanted to murder Erskine for doing the same things.”

“To be fair,” said Saracen, “a lot of people want to murder Erskine for entirely different reasons.”

“Oy,” Erskine protested into the phone.

“Oh, you _are_ still there? Even I was beginning to wonder.”

“Smug git.”

Saracen laughed, and Erskine’s grin was fuller than before, if more reluctant.

“We’re worried because their agents in the US and France have been murdered,” said Hopeless, “and we’ve lost contact with the ones in England.”

“We?” Guild demanded.

“They,” Hopeless corrected, and Erskine heard him sigh. “I’m sorry, I’m — yes. The governor of the Tír is Adaeze Chiabuoto. I asked Bliss to liaise with her last year, while we were handling the Remnants. The city was built by Erskine and, I guess, by me, so we’ve been trying to extricate ourselves from situations where the lines are blurred.”

“How does their losing contact with their agents relate to Ireland?” Guild asked shortly. “If this Paul Lynch was theirs, then liaising for law enforcement reasons, I understand. But that’s _all_ the service Ireland should be providing.”

“For one thing, because it’s polite for allies to help allies liaise with people who aren’t allies yet,” said Erskine, more snidely than he meant. He didn’t try to retract it. Guild had damn well better remember he was the one preaching alliance policy.

“Ravel,” Guild growled indignantly, before Hopeless cut in.

“And because Paul Lynch was a Sensitive having visions of Dublin being bombed by a nuclear warhead.” 

This time the pause was more grim, and then Guild cursed quietly. Paused. Cursed some more, at length, and Erskine couldn’t help but laugh. “That’s about the size of things.”

“How long have the Dead Men known about this?”

Erskine opened his mouth to bristle, _almost_ glad that he’d kept the Dead Men in the dark for so long and feeling guilty about it at the same time, but Hopeless answered first.

“Skulduggery and Dexter found out about the vision the day before yesterday,” Hopeless explained. Erskine deflated. Oh, they’re talking about the _vision_. “I told Bliss last night. He told me I needed to tell you. He’s right.”

“He was right weeks ago,” said Guild, in a very tight voice. Erskine really hoped that Saracen was between Hopeless and Guild right now. He didn’t think Guild was that stupid, but it would still make Erskine feel better.

“I know,” said Hopeless.

“If you know, then why didn’t you say something _before_ this —” Guild closed his mouth so sharply Erskine heard the click over the phone.

“Thurid,” said Hopeless, “I’m not a god, or even demi; I’m just a person, and you’ve been subtly demanding that I go a lot further than just telling _you_ some of my friends’ secrets. You’ll have to forgive me if I’ve been a bit preoccupied with that instead.”

There was a pause in which Erskine could hear Guild breathing deeply. Funny. Erskine hadn’t realised Guild even knew about anger-management techniques.

“Are you seriously claiming,” said Guild, his voice even tighter, “that you weren’t not telling me out of some — long-term political plan?”

“Holy double negatives, Batman,” Saracen muttered somewhere in the background, and Hopeless sighed.

“Yes, I’m honestly telling you that. I was wrong and I’m sorry, but please give me a bit of leeway, here. I’ve got a lot on my plate, and mind-reader doesn’t mean omniscient.”

He was definitely laying it on thick. Erskine really hoped that it was at least partly an act, because if it wasn’t, Hopeless was stretched thin enough to be _this_ brutally vulnerable with _Guild_ , and that was really bad.

Another long pause. Erskine leaned against the wall, glanced down to make sure it wasn’t mouldy, and settled more comfortably. Finally Guild cleared his throat again. “What actions are we taking?”

“At first we were assuming the bombing had to do with the Tír,” said Erskine, so Hopeless wouldn’t have to. “Elder Kerias knows about the Tír and approached Bliss to try and pull him over to their — side, I guess, whatever it is. That makes an even chance Bisahalani knows about it too.”

“And we already know Tesseract was hired by Bisahalani to murder Descry,” said Saracen, and Guild let out a bark of a laugh.

“You didn’t think to mention _that_?”

“I was busy trying to read Tesseract’s mind every time he came close,” said Hopeless. “I only managed to get the name of his employer a few days ago. Unfortunately, he couldn’t tell us much about Bisahalani’s plans, except that he’s the one who sent Marr here to begin with last year.”

“I remember,” said Guild sourly.

“And Marr, we know, was doing some work related to what Scarab was, so either she’s a turncoat taking jobs on the side, or Bisahalani is, or Kerias got in-between and used Marr for her own purposes.”

“It’s like China’s whispers,” said Saracen faux-cheerfully. Everyone ignored him.

“So we don’t actually know who might bomb Dublin,” said Guild grimly.

“No,” said Erskine. “Preliminarily, the Tír’s agents were murdered by warlocks, the same as Lynch. But warlocks are different from a bomb, and we can’t tell how much their activities intersect with Lynch’s vision. The fact the other agents were killed indicates a coordinated attack, but if so, we don’t know who might be behind it, and either way, the bomb is more important.”

“This morning I got a call from the Government Buildings,” said Hopeless. “One of the members of the Irish Temple arrived there with news that the high priest has shut down all movement in and out of the Temple, and imprisoned Wreath’s supporters. And Wreath himself.”

“So, right now, we’re suspecting that the bomb might be in response to whatever stupidity the necromancers are about to do,” Erskine finished.

There was a long pause. Then Guild muttered, “I don’t know whether to blame all this on the Dead Men being in power, or be glad it’s you and not me.”

Saracen laughed. It sounded sardonic. “Oh, believe me, we’re right there with you. But from the other side.”

“A lot of things happening are happening without our input,” said Hopeless mildly. “Aside from the Tír, I really don’t think we’ve had any more impact on making these things happen than you did on Scarab’s actions.”

Guild grunted and didn’t answer. Erskine _really_ wanted to know what was going on there, but whatever secret Hopeless knew about Guild, he’d been keeping it close to the chest, and probably intended to keep doing that. Erskine had to wonder what Guild thought of that, because Guild was sure getting over his paranoia pretty quickly; and then he had to wonder whether Guild knew that he was beginning to trust that Hopeless wouldn’t use it against him.

Guild wasn’t the type to trust. That Hopeless could get even him on side made ERskine have to turn his head to laugh silently toward the wall.

“So you hired Tesseract to make him stop trying to kill you,” said Guild, “and because you’ll probably need the protection. In the meantime, we’re assisting this — Tír — in investigating the murder of their agent, while trying to deal with the necromancers, and the possibility that Bisahalani might declare war on the Irish Sanctuary because he knows you’re a — mind-reader, and may be assuming the Tír is an extended arm of Ireland.”

“Essentially,” said Hopeless, “yes.”

“Why did you call me down here?”

“I need you to cover the Sanctuary for a bit while I go to the Government Buildings.”

“Is that a good idea?” Saracen asked. “I mean, the Government Buildings aren’t exactly warded. Not that anyone other than Tesseract was able to get into the Sanctuary, I guess …”

“That’s why I want you with me. Thurid, someone needs to stay in the Sanctuary and start investigating the necromancers from this end, as well as assist the Tír with investigating Lynch’s death. When Skulduggery gets back, he’ll need to report in to you.”

“Where’s Bliss?”

“Last year,” said Erskine while keeping his tone very, very carefully bank, “Eliza Scorn approached China Sorrows to demand she return to the fold, as it were.”

“Finbar Wrong’s been having visions that Mevolent’s returned,” said Hopeless, and there was another long pause. This time Erskine didn’t even hear Guild trying to breathe.

“You couldn’t have _led_ with that?” Guild said, very low and very angry.

“It would have overshadowed everything else. The nuclear bombing of Dublin is imminent, and we’re mostly sure that it doesn’t involve Mevolent. We weren’t sure who to trust, or who would believe us. I told Bliss last night. He’s going to investigate some of his old contacts, and his sister’s old contacts, to try and determine whether Kerias is linked to whoever’s claiming to be, or claiming to be working for, Mevolent.”

“Have any other Sensitives been seeing the same thing?”

“Cassandra Pharos,” Saracen volunteered. “I spoke to her a few months ago. Her visions are lot more vague, but she’s definitely been seeing something, and it’s probably Mevolent. I’ve asked around. Some people are seeing doom and gloom, but nothing specific. Tanith’s going to check some others in England while she’s there, but Finbar’s vision is the one that’s clearest so far.”

“Frankly, if the Sensitives aren’t all seeing him clearly, he’s probably not as imminent a threat,” Erskine added grimly, and manages to avoid his voice from cracking. His stomach keeps flipping over itself in a wholly uncomfortable way. “Nuclear warheads first, Mevolent second. Words I never thought I’d say.”

Guild sighed and there was silence on the other end. Erskine levered off the wall to pace back and forth in Kenny’s living-room, glancing back toward the kitchen. He’d been speaking in Irish, and even now could see the silhouette of the reporter, close to the door, and poised to listen.

… Erskine was going to have to dispose of a tape recorder or something, wasn’t he?

“Alright,” said Guild. “I’m taking lead in the investigation into Paul Lynch, the warlocks, and the burning of the halfway house, in conjunction with the Tír, correct?”

“Yes.”

“Are they sending anyone?”

“Yes,” said Hopeless. “We’re the only Sanctuary who knows about them, so we’re their best resource. They’re sending over a detective named Digger, and she’ll be coming with an attache of special operations agents as a gesture of good will. We also need to discuss how we’re going to introduce the governor and the Taoiseach — but that’s something that can wait for a day or two, until after we’ve got this nuclear annihiliation situation sorted.”

Guild grunted again. “That’s a lesser priority. Does the Taoiseach know?”

“In so many words, no, but he’s mortal. There’s a lot he doesn’t know and won’t be surprised by hearing it, relatively speaking.”

“And my other suggestion?”

Erskine tensed, biting his tongue so he didn’t asnwer sharply. Saracen didn’t quite have the same restraint.

“He just told you how much he’s got to think about right now,” said Saracen, his voice furious; leashed, but barely. “You don’t think _that_ can wait a few more days too?!”

“No,” snapped Guild. “This many balls to juggle is _exactly_ why it can’t wait a few more days.”

“I’m going to need them anyway,” said Hopeless, with a note in his tone that made Erskine’s fist clench so as to not punch Kenny’s wall. It was something — very small, and vulnerable, and damn Guild, anyway. “It’s been on my mind, Thurid, I haven’t been ignoring it. But I can’t make that decision right at this moment. Ask me again later.”

Another pause, this one charged, and Erskine _really_ hoped Saracen was prepared to punch Guild if he said _anything_ other than —

“Fine,” said Guild brusquely. “When are you heading to the Government Buildings?”

“Now,” said Hopeless. “With Tesseract and Saracen, and Erskine will be on call to liaise between the Taoiseach and the Sanctuary, and the Tír.”

“No pressure,” Erskine muttered, and glanced toward the kitchen. “I have a reporter here who was talking to Lynch, who needs somewhere safe to stay. I’ll bring him to the Sanctuary.”

“A _mortal_ reporter?” Guild demanded scathingly.

“Yes, Guild, a _mortal_ reporter, because like it or not, mortals are pretty good at ferreting out the truths right now!” So much for restraint. Erskine bit his tongue and took a breath. “You and I can talk about those things when I get back.”

Fun, oh, fun. He just won’t mention the Monster Hunters, or Saracen being at the White House the other day.

“Alright,” said Hopeless. “That’s it. Thank you, Thurid. We’ll be in contact every hour, if not more frequently. Erskine, if Skulduggery calls, text me an update, will you?”

“I will,” said Erskine, and his voice softened, not entirely consciously. “Stay safe.”

“I’m not the one who almost forgot to sleep two nights in a row,” said Hopeless, and at least he was smiling; Erskine could hear it in his tone, and it made Erskine smile too, even as he grimaced. Then he hung up, took a breath, and turned toward the kitchen where Kenny’s silhouette had vanished to try and pretend he hadn’t been listening.


	24. The Death Bringer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for torture as a side-effect of other motives.

Wreath tried his best to swallow a whimper, and it didn’t work. Craven revelled in that loss of control. It had taken a lamentably long time.

“Almost done,” he said gleefully, and then added: “Not that that matters much to you, because you’ll be dead. Congratulations, Wreath, you’ll be the first life sacrificed to our saviour, for the sake of the rest.”

“How — flattering —” Wreath managed, and then bit down on a groan as Craven inked another line connecting the one he’d just made, and used thin tendrils of shadow to erase what had been there. It was the last part that made Wreath shudder: apparently, having ink erased hurt more than having it laid, who would have thought.

“It’s better than you deserve,” said Craven sanctimoniously, relishing this. He got to be the one to render judgement — _he_ got to be the one who said who was worth. Ah, such power.

“Craven …”

“If this is you about to beg for mercy,” said Craven, “save it. This is happening whether you like it or not.”

Wreath exhaled shudderingly against the table. “You’re an idiot.”

Just for that, Craven stabbed him a little more than necessary, enough to make him hiss but not enough to damage the body that was soon to become sacred.

“I didn’t see you fighting for the Temple’s goals all that much lately,” he said pointedly, and connected another line, another sigil changed.

He let Wreath have some respite by turning toward the map being held by one of the acolytes, to make sure of his progress, and was pleased and delighted to see that he was, in fact, almost done. He had been working step by step; but now, viewing the whole piece, he could see thre were only two more sigils to go.

Craven twisted back to the table, summoning shadows and lifting his magnifying glass, and peering into the bindings. They were a work of art, he admitted grudgingly, just one that didn’t recognise what they were holding. He would soon fix that.

“If you believe in anything, Wreath,” he said magnanimously, setting the magnifying glass aside, “you can start praying now. There are two sigils left, and then you’re done for.”

Wreath shuddered, before Craven had even put stylus to his back. He’d been doing that more frequently too. Craven could only assume it was the Death Bringer making itself known within him.

_Craven_ , at least, took it as a good sign. Wreath probably didn’t agree. Craven didn’t particularly care.

“You really — don’t know — what you’re doing —”

“On the contrary,” said Craven, “the sigils, while complex, aren’t totally incomprehensible. Just flawed.”

Wreath might have laughed, then. Craven opted to ignore it in favour of finishing his work, connecting these last sigils carefully. The moment the lines were inked Wreath shuddered again, more strongly this time, so Craven had to stop and wait for it to subside. Only then could he lean forward to erase the ink that was no longer applicable; and thus, the bindings were complete, and no longer bindings.

They shone very suddenly red, patterning across Wreath’s body. Craven stepped away, very quickly. He was expecting — something grandiose; something vindicating. Screaming, perhaps. There wasn’t any. It was a touch disappointing. Instead the sigils blackened, and Wreath went limp.

“… Did it work?” someone asked cautiously. Craven recognised the voice belonging to one of the senior clerics on hand as a witness. They’ve been switching out a bit. Someone had to run the Temple while things were going on, after all, and Craven didn’t actually know how long it would take; but this _would_ be witnessed.

“Of course it worked,” said Craven, ignoring the pang of doubt in his chest. He set the stylus aside. “Unbind him.”

The acolytes gave each other nervous glances. Craven sighed. Honestly, he had to do everything himself around here …

He reached out to unlock one of the manacles, and the moment it fell away that hand snapped out and caught his wrist in a grip so tight that Craven felt his bones grind together. He bite the inside of his cheek on a cry of pain, but still couldn’t keep it out of his tone as he said, “Good morning, my lord. Are you awake?”

There came a grunt from somewhere under the curtain of hair across face, and then very suddenly shadows sharpened and slashed away the rest of the manacles, and the Death Bringer released Craven’s wrist and sat up.

It was a slow kind of sitting, like someone who’d been ill for too long — or injured, perhaps. Possibly just trapped by circumstances. Craven backed away, rubbing his twinging arm, to watch.

It was Wreath’s body, but it didn’t move like him. The Death Bringer frowned, reached up with a hand to brush hair off his eyes. Eyes that were red, without any pupils, iris or whites. Several of the acolytes backed away, and Craven’s heart jackhammered in his chest, but even so he refused to withdraw.

“Sleep well?” he asked, very courteous, if only for the lack of anything helse. He hadn’t quite known what to expect here, and while this wasn’t entirely out of the realm of his expectations, it was somewhat disappointing not to be immediately acknowledged as the arbiter aof the Death Bringer’s freedom.

Especially since the Death Bringer seemed more interested in studying Wreath’s hand than anything else. He touched his face, looking surprised and curious and pleased. Craven couldn’t remember Wreath ever showing that much emotion besides amusement and, more recently, pain. It was both alarming and vindicating.

Craven stepped forward again, and bowed. “Death Bringer. My name is —”

“Vannndomeer C- Craven,” said the Death Bringer, a little slurring, a little catching on the hard sounds. He looked surprised again, and worked his own jaw until it cracked, and Craven winced at the sound. In a room like this, it echoed.

“I’m delighted that you know me, my lord,” he said, and straightened with a smile he can only barely restrain — forget having to force. It had worked. He’d been _right_. “I hadn’t been sure you would have any of Wreath’s memories.”

“Have enough,” said the Death Bringer, rubbing his jaw. Craven hoped that meant he wouldn’t crack it again. 

… He hoped that also meant Death was feeling some pain, because that would make him more easily controlled.

“Wonderful,” said Craven, beaming. “In that case, would you —”

“No,” said the Death Bringer, and got off the table, staggering at first and leaning on the table, looking again surprised and annoyed. He touched his torso, his thighs, stamped his feet and grunted. “This body is inefficient.”

Craven beat down the spike of annoyance. _That’s_ what he had to say? All the time and effort Craven put into releasing him, and that’s what he said?

“I’m afraid your physical armour is no longer available,” he said, trying very hard to keep his annoyance out of his tone, and looking away from how the Death Bringer continued to explore Wreath’s body. Honestly, that was just … indecent.

“Bring a robe,” Craven ordered one of the acolytes. At least with everyone’s hoods up no one had to look at each other in the face while the Death Bringer examined its new environs, and the robe was very quick in coming.

Craven took it and shook it out, and held it out to the Death Bringer with as much reverence as he could muster. “For you.”

The Death Bringer looked at him with an eerie little smile and a tilt of his head which reminded Craven uncomfortably of someone else. “For me?”

“Yes,” said Craven, keeping his eyes averted and hoping people would think it was out of reverence rather than unnerve. Vile had tipped his head just that way …

“Don’t want that one,” said Death, and Craven grit his teeth.

“I’m afraid you’ll attract attention if you walk around naked, my lord —”

“Where are _my_ clothes?”

What on Earth is he —

“As I said,” said Craven tightly, “your physical armour is no longer available —”

“Not that,” said Death, and massaged his chest with a little more enjoyment than Craven strictly wished to see in public. Craven supposed allowances had to be made for people who’d never had flesh and blood bodies, but even so, he kept his gaze averted. “The clothes this body was wearing.”

It took Craven a moment to realise what he meant, and then he had to grit his teeth. Of all the — well, _fine_ , if anyone was entitled to wear something _not robes_ he supposed it could be the Death Bringer, but of all the things for him to learn from Wreath of all people —

He turned toward one of the acolytes. “Bring the suit Wreath was wearing.”

The acolyte bowed and hurried off.

“That will be here shortly,” said Craven, and this time he had to force the smile to his face. He handed the robes off to someone else so he didn’t have to stand around holding them awkwardly. Let someone else be undignified. Not him. “As I was saying, the Temple welcomes you to our halls. We were rather hoping —”

“No,” said Death again, and Craven bit his tongue to avoid saying something stupid.

“May I ask why?”

Death looked at him again, smiling that eerie smile, and with a stab of dread Craven wondered if it was the smile Vile had worn while he was killing those very many, many people he had killed.

“I’m not done with this world yet,” said Death.

Craven swallowed. “May I … may I ask what you mean by that?”

“No,” said Death, and his smile grew a little larger. Craven hated that he was sweating, hated that Death seemed to be able to look at him and know that he was — was this something he’d learned from Wreath’s obstinacy too, or was this something else? Craven didn’t remember _Vile_ ever refusing an order; but then, it wasn’t as though he’d been in Mevolent’s inner sanctum to know.

“Well …” Craven fished around for words. “What do you want to do, then?”

“I want to walk outside,” said Death, “on the surface.”

Craven made some decisions, very quickly, as the acolyte returned with the suit Wreath had been wearing just last night. He eyeballed the shadows which were still risen around the table, fixed in place the way shadows shouldn’t be, because shadows weren’t solid objects just like that.

He forced a smile onto his face, and held out Wreath’s suit.

“I think we can arrange that.”


	25. Terminal two

The Hibernian had been having a lot more visitors than Valkyrie had seen in the last — ever. At least this time it had nothing to do with bodies being delivered in the loading bay and more to do with _people_ being delivered into the loading bay.

When Skulduggery pulled into the driveway the roller-door was already up and there was a van neither of them recognised. Someone moved down the side of it as Skulduggery parked, and Valkyrie exited the Bentley in a rush and came almost face to face with Xun.

For a moment they both stared at each other, and then Xun smiled and raised his hand in a wave. The smile looked a little forced. “Hey.”

“Hey,” said Valkyrie, and tried to pretend her heart wasn’t suddenly pounding. “What are you doing here?”

“Delivering Pandora,” said Xun. “Bev and Modeste are at your Sanctuary to handle the investigation of Paul Lynch’s death.”

“Oh, okay.” Even knowing that, Valkyrie couldn’t relax. Most of the time she met these people someone was in trouble, and the last time — the last time —

That, and it was just surreal seeing people from the Tír here. It was like two worlds were colliding. “Are you guys okay to be working?” It wasn’t what she meant to say, but it blurted itself out anyway, and Valkyrie winced. “I mean … just …”

Xun smiled at her, small and tired. “Working means we get to catch bastards like the one who did that to Aria.”

“Didn’t he want to be on our side?”

“I meant the Remnant.”

“They’re not around anymore.”

“No,” said Xun, “but there’ll always be people around who think they can do things like that. I don’t like Dusk, but vampires are kind of a weapon, aren’t they? He’s helping a researcher trying to help manage the vampiric change. That can only be a good thing. So, I can pretend he’s not there, for now.”

“And Bev, and Modeste?”

Xun shrugged. “You’ll have to ask them how they feel.”

He probably didn’t mean it like that, but it felt dismissive, and he looked so tired … Valkyrie had to wonder, suddenly, whether this was the first time the Tír had had to deal with stuff like this, with terrorists winning. Almost winning.

She felt another pang. The Remnants had come from Ireland, and Aria had been helping _her_ , helping her family …

“I really am sorry,” Valkyrie said quietly, and Xun put his hands on her shoulders and made sure she was looking at him.

“Aria’s death was not your fault,” he said firmly. “Okay?”

Valkyrie swallowed hard. It sure felt like her fault, but — well, saying that wouldn’t fix anything, and anyway, Xun was trying to be nice. “Okay.”

“Good.” He dropped his hands. “I need to go catch up with Bev and Modeste. The Sanctuary’s said they’ll look after Pandora.”

Even still, he glanced toward the doors and Valkyrie could tell he was worried about leaving one of theirs alone. She couldn’t really blame him for that, even though it wasn’t Ireland’s fault things keep happening. It kind of seemed like it was, sometimes.

“She’ll be fine,” Valkyrie assured him. “Unless she gets on Kenspeckle’s bad side, anyway.”

He laughed, and it sounded free enough, even if it didn’t last long; and Valkyrie waved at him as she went toward the doors, where Skulduggery was waiting.

“Friend of yours?” he asked, adjusting his hat. Valkyrie inhaled deeply, bracing herself.

“Xun. He’s a speedster, he works for the Tír’s special operations … He was possessed by a Remnant six months ago. It was the same one that was in Julian, and in Aria when Dusk killed her.”

She managed to keep her tone even, which she was pleased about, but her heart thudded against her chest almost in time with her footsteps as they moved through the halls.

“I don’t remember details about that,” said Skulduggery delicately.

“If you’re asking if I want to talk —”

“I wouldn’t say _asking_ …”

Despite herself, Valkyrie smiled. “Goon.”

He didn’t _have_ to ask, but he was, sort-of. He really was trying this ‘being nice to people’ thing. It was weird, but kind of nice sometimes, when it wasn’t _really_ weird. It was because of that, she was pretty sure, that her mouth kept talking even though she didn’t meant for it to. “I liked Aria. We worked together, she helped me out with trying to find Carol. It just — seems unfair that right as we could have saved her, someone like Dusk had to get in the way.”

Her tone soured as she spoke, and her fists clenched, and she had to take some effort to unclench them. The painful irony of the situation was that it was right at the _end_. Valkyrie’s memories were a bit wobbly, but she remembered not being sure whether things would have worked out if Dusk hadn’t stopped the Remnant like that.

It was just … unfair.

Awkwardly, Skulduggery patted her shoulder, and Valkyrie burst into laughter. “Don’t strain yourself.”

His hand dropped. “Thank goodness for that. I don’t really have much I can say. Life is unfair like that.” For the whole length of a hall, neither of them said anything; and then Skulduggery said, more quietly, “I’m sorry about your friend, Valkyrie.”

“Thanks,” said Valkyrie, just as quietly, and then they were at the hall outside Gail’s room, and that was enough of _that_ conversation.

They almost ran into Clarabelle around the corner, pulling one of the trolleys from the loading dock. She smiled at them vaguely. “Good morning! Are you hear to see Gail too?”

“Yeah,” said Valkyrie, exhaling. “We heard Pandora was here.”

“She is,” said Clarabelle cheerfully. “Gail’s very excited. I talk to her all the time, you know. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to need this.”

She passed them, still tugging the trolley to God-knows-where, as Valkyrie and Skulduggery watched in silence.

“I’ve gotta wonder why Kenspeckle keeps her around,” Valkyrie muttered.

"For much the same reason Hopeless keeps Weeper around, I imagine,” said Skulduggery.

“Yeah, why _is_ that?” Valkyrie demanded as they turned back toward the hall. Weeper was worse than useless.

“Compassion,” said Skulduggery simply, and then they were passing the cleaver at this end of the hall, and they both fell silent.

For once Gail’s room was open. There was a cleaver at the other end of the hall too, and Macha stood hovering over the doorway from the wall opposite it, arms crossed and watching intently everything that was going on in the room. Her head jerked as they approached, but she only nodded to Valkyrie as they passed.

Inside the room was practically full. Kenspeckle hovered and muttered notes to either himself or Farley, who was squeezed into a corner with the stuff that had been attached to Gail up until now. Pandora and her equipment took up most of the room.

“No R & D?” Valkyrie asked, looking around. Pandora looked up with the brilliant smile of a scientist on the war-path.

“No, we couldn’t get funding to have them dispensation,” she said, “since Ireland said there would be enough hands to put things together here — I’m the only one who’s really necessary, unfortunately. They both would have liked to be here, but there’ll be plenty of things to keep them occupied in the city.”

“Valkyrie,” Kenspeckle greeted her, brimming with excitement, and frankly that was a little alarming — anything that excited _Kenspeckle_ in this way was sure to be complicated, and probably dangerous. His expression barely dimmed when his gaze transferred to Skulduggery, though his nod remained short and jerky as always. “Pleasant.”

“Professor.” Skulduggery tipped his hat to Kenspeckle, and he turned toward Pandora. “I take it you’re Pandora. Valkyrie’s spoken not very much about you, but I’m delighted to make your acquaintance anyway.”

Valkyrie scowled. “Hey.”

Pandora was staring, which wasn’t unusual, but with a hungry look in her eyes, which was. She jumped when Skulduggery offered his hand, and belatedly reached out to take it. “And you must be Skulduggery Pleasant. I’d like to dissect _your_ name.”

Skulduggery paused, Valkyrie grinned. “Thank you?”

“Because you’re a skeleton,” Pandora explained, taking back her hand. “I’d like to see how it relates to your state of being.”

“Thank you,” said Skulduggery again, and adjusted his hat for the umpteenth time since Valkyrie had noticed he’d been doing it. “But I’d rather not mess with that just in case something breaks.”

“That’s understandable,” said Pandora, nodding, “but if you ever change your mind, let me know. We might be able to make you more stable, too.”

Valkyrie went to the foot of Gail’s bed to glance over her and the equipment. It only looked half set up, which was about what Valkyrie had expected anyway. Gail seemed especially small and fragile underneath the tray-table on which the device sat.

It looked like a combination of the orb she’d seen under the Tír and something like the brainwave monitor unplugged and moved to a corner of the room, where Farley was leaning. He saw her looking and gave her a small smile, and then picked up on Kenspeckle’s notes.

Behind her, Skulduggery asked Pandora, “I did have some questions, if you have the time?”

“Of course,” said Pandora, “as long as you don’t mind my focus being elsewhere while we set this up.”

“Not at all. How is Myron Stray these days?”

“Much better,” said Pandora, sounding very satisfied. “Your Grand Mage has been very helpful in providing additional data our research needs. It’s really helped us stabilise Myron.”

Valkyrie turned toward her without taking her eyes off Gail or actually releasing her grip on the bed. “Did you managed to seal his true name?”

“I don’t know that I’d call it a seal,” said Pandora. “It’s a little different, what we’re doing, compared to the actual magic of sealing. Do you know what that involves?” Valkyrie shook her head. “You need to be cut open and have some specific sigils written on your heart.”

Valkyrie paused. “That seems painful, and also impossible, without dying.”

“Not impossible,” said Kenspeckle, “just very, very difficult, and very, very dangerous. There _are_ ways to simulate death without dying, though of course many of them rely on trusting people who are inherently untrustworthy.”

“Could you do it?”

Kenspeckle harrumphs. “Of course I could do it! I may need some help with the undeath part, but certainly, I can do it.”

Valkyrie hid a smile at Farley’s smirk.

“What did you do with Stray?” Skulduggery asked Pandora, not to be deterred from his line of investigation.

“With Myron it was something else,” said Pandora. “How much has Valkyrie told you about our process and theory?”

“Not much.”

“It was classified,” Valkyrie protested.

“I’m really not sure about this trend of my apprentice having classified information that I don’t,” mused Skulduggery. “Maybe I should talk to someone about this. Please go on, Pandora.”

She was laughing as she connected some leads to her computer. It looked vaguely arcane and old-tech compared to Kenspeckle’s machines on the other side — only because there was stone involved in Tír’s computers. “Well, suffice to say that we’ve determined that name-magic interacts with people on a level we can’t normally read. We call them strings — magic threads which weave together as people interact with one another. Normally, that’s fine, and nothing bad happens, but Myron’s strings were unravelling to a degree that his sense of self was practically lost.”

“That makes sense,” Skulduggery murmured. “The name is the key to the self, after all.”

“Exactly,” said Pandora. “A given name is like someone’s strings are public — anyone who knows the name, which is everyone, can barge in and rifle around. A taken name puts a lock on it, prevents anyone from being able to manipulate a person. A true name is like a skeleton key: no matter how many locks are on a person’s being, it can get through them all, or it can lock them down hard, like a vault.”

“And give them god-like powers,” said Valkyrie.

“And give them god-like powers,” agrees Pandora. “That part, we haven’t been able to study, for obvious reasons — but we’ve been hypothesising that a true name makes a person’s threads more efficient. It’s like they’re all a jumble, beforehand; and that’s fine. That works okay for most people, and is probably the best way to go about things. But when a true name has aligned them all, it taps into whatever substrata of magic exists. I can’t imagine how overwhelming _that_ might be.”

“Well, Mevolent _was_ insane,” said Skulduggery conversationally, and Valkyrie frowned at him.

“Mevolent wasn’t his true name, was it?”

“Under debate,” Skulduggery admitted. “He was so powerful people thought he would have to be; but by the same token, some people argue that if he was, we shouldn’t have stood a chance.”

“It’s a pity there’s no way to find out,” said Pandora.

“Does Hopeless know?” Valkyrie asked Skulduggery.

“He might,” said Skulduggery slowly, the way he did when he was thinking hard about something else entirely. “To be honest, I’ve never asked. None of us have. It wasn’t important.”

Valkyrie thought about that for a moment, trying to imagine going up against someone as powerful, as charismatic, as determined as Mevolent. It wasn’t hard, since they kind of already were. And after a moment she nodded, because while it was a point of curiosity, she couldn’t imagine how knowing that could possibly help or not. Mevolent had to be stopped: period.

“At any rate,” said Pandora, “Myron’s situation is the opposite of that; his strings aren’t condensed, they’re dispersed. Every time someone used his name, they took another part of him. Now, the interesting thing there is that they were still all connected. We didn’t expect that.”

“You mean you could track his strings even though they weren’t around him anymore?” Valkyrie asked, startled.

“Something like that,” said Pandora. “They thinned out a lot, disappeared — but it was a slow unravelling, not something cut or broken. It meant that we were able to trace where they were and put him together a little more, so he’s more stable.”

“But it doesn’t stop anyone from using his name?”

“That’s the part we’re up to now.” Pandora smiled warmly at Valkyrie. “R & D are testing that while I’m here. We’re pretty sure we’ve been able to put together a kind of — gateway, using seals and words. It’s not the same and it’s not been tested yet, but we’re hoping that it will at least give people some pause. Ironically enough, the Remnant might have helped with that. We’ve seen some indications that it left something behind.”

Valkyrie stiffened, and saw Skulduggery’s head turn slowly from examining Pandora’s equipment to Pandora herself. “Left something behind?”

“Something very small,” said Pandora. “We need more research on that. I understand from the Grand Mage that that might be of interest to one of the Dead Men, so we’re keeping him apprised.”

“Good,” said Skulduggery, and went very quiet and still. Valkyrie said nothing, but her heart was beating fast. This could help Dexter, and Anton too — it was hard to say which one had anything left behind, when they’d been affected in such different ways. Maybe it was a case where a similar thing had happened with opposite results. Either way, this was — this was _great_. No wonder Hopeless had asked Pandora here.

“With Gail the situation is slightly different again,” said Kenspeckle briskly. “In her case, someone has used her given name to enact a command she’s compelled to obey. It’s an active nerve, as it were.”

“What we’re going to do today is shut down that command,” Pandora explained, “and hopefully put a lock on it so it can’t be used again. That may not stop someone from using her given name in the same fashion, but it might, too. The fact it’s her given name makes this significantly easier, and when she takes a name it’ll be easier still.”

Skulduggery stirred in a way that said he had been thinking hard and not at all paying attention. “Sorry,” he said to no one in particular, “backtracking a smidge. You said something about threads and movement. Is there any reason you couldn’t use this device to track someone across a geographical area?”

Pandora glanced at Valkyrie. Valkyrie grimaced, and Pandora smiled. “I see why you think the way you do,” she said, and looked at Skulduggery. “Valkyrie had the same idea, on the Tír, and we gave it a go. Unfortunately, it didn’t work. A person’s name, even highlighted, can leave traces, but there’s just too much noise from everyone else. If you’re talking about tracking someone through a populated area —”

“I am,” said Skulduggery.

“Then it’s just not possible. Everyone else’s souls get in the way.”

“A pity,” Skulduggery muttered, and stood back, crossing his arms. “Well, those are all the questions I —”

He cut off abruptly and there was a thud from his direction, and Valkyrie whirled to find him on the floor, his bones limp and skull turning slowly on his spine as if someone had unlocked it. At once Valkyrie was at his side, reaching out without touching him.

“Skulduggery?” she asked, her heart in her throat. What had happened _there_? If he weren’t a skeleton she’d say he’d fainted, but — skeletons don’t faint. Do they? “Skulduggery!”

His skull jerked and his body lifted, like all the bones had for a moment started to come apart before snapping together. Valkyrie exhaled shakily as he looked at his hands, gloved and padded, and flexed them.

“You’ve _got_ to be joking,” he said, sounding more irritable than Valkyrie had ever heard him, and she blinked.

“Um …” His skull snapped toward her, and stayed fixed in her direction for a moment. She waved her hand in front of his eye-sockets. “Hi. Yes. It’s me. Skulduggery, _what just happened_?”

“I’m not Skulduggery,” said Skulduggery, sounding intensely affronted, and also very terse. “Oh, this is just wonderful.” His head jerked suddenly to the side. “Do you _mind_ —” And then again, to the other. “Yes, I do mind, shut up and let me think for a moment.”

Valkyrie sat with a thud on the floor, staring. He was talking to himself. And the way his skull was moving — it was almost like he was fighting against someone else _being inside him_ —

“I thought skeletons couldn’t get possessed,” said Farley, staring from his corner.

“They can’t!” Valkyrie scrambled to her knees and gripped his shoulder, and again his skull snapped around.

“Hello,” he said, very briskly, “yes, Valkyrie Cain, I recognise you. Can you please call the Grand Mage for me? It’s really rather urgent.”

“Let’s begin with _who are you_?” Valkyrie exploded, and then took a breath to check herself. Skulduggery was possessed. _Skulduggery_. This was — impossible, and terrible, and Valkyrie felt like the world was coming apart. Skulduggery was meant to be _immutable_. How had this happened?

“There’s no need to be angry about it,” said Skulduggery-that-wasn’t, sounding offended. “It’s Wreath, Solomon Wreath, and believe me _neither_ of us are happy about it —”

His skull snapped around. Valkyrie swallowed some hysterical laughter. “Believe me, Wreath, I’m unhappier than you are.”

And again. “Skulduggery, this is all your fault, so if you don’t mind sitting back and shutting up so I can deliver my ominous warning, we’d all appreciate it.”

The hysterical laughter won, and Valkyrie bent inward, wheezing, even as her hand fumbled for her phone and Hopeless’s number.


	26. Friends in low places

The only drawback to having a new position, Ide reflected, was that there was no way to publicly announce her job description, and also it made other such processes difficult. Like the name of it. Right now she was classed as an ambassador, which, while technically accurate, really didn’t get across the nuance of the thing.

At least the Taoiseach had asked, very politely and apologetically, for her to switch jobs. Something about her being the best qualified person they had, and also a hefty raise. The raise had helped substantially.

It meant that Ide was sitting here in this room watching the woman from the Necromancer’s Temple roam around it like a frightened puppy exploring something new for the first time. The sight of her made Ide’s heart pang.

She wasn’t new to this sort of thing. Ide’s list of credentials included working for a non-profit organisation catering to battered women. She had learned, very quickly, that that situation was not for her, and she very much preferred to be able to help prevent that sort of thing, which was why she was in the Government Buildings and not somewhere else.

This woman, Saffron Sweetgrass, reminded Ide of some of those women. Frightened, curled in, aware that something was wrong but in the next breath liable to defend her partner — or her religion, as the case may be — to the next breath.

Ide had asked for a psychologist. She wasn’t equipped to deal with this. She was also going to get someone who’d dealt with cults, from the garda’s office — she was pretty sure this qualified. Far be it for Ide to judge a faery’s religion, but even so …

There was a knock at the door and Ms Sweetgrass whirled, big-eyed and clutching the mug in her hand, as she had been for the last ten minutes since Ide gave it to her. It couldn’t be hot anymore, but she was still holding it like it was the only heat she’d get all year.

“It’s just for me,” Ide reassured her, and rose to go and answer the door. One of the garda outside saluted.

“Minister Kavanagh — the Grand Mage is here.”

“Thank you,” said Ide. The garda had the particular rictus of resigned acceptance people had worn around the Government Buildings for the last six months: like they were talking about things they couldn’t quite belive was real, but also couldn’t deny that they were. If anything good had come out of the Remnant invasion, it was that anyone who had been there was a believer. It had made it easier for Fionn to explain his motivations and ambitions.

Easier, but not easy. Unfortunately it meant that those who hadn’t been there were more difficult sells, and ‘I want to be friends with the faeries’ hardly qualified as an ambition. Ide knew something else was in the works, but so far, the Sanctuary had been stonewalling her on how it related to the Government Buildings.

She opened the door a little to poke her head in, and Ms Sweetgrass looked up. “I’ll be back in five minutes,” she said, “with the Irish Grand Mage. If you need anything, there’s someone outside the door, okay?”

Ms Sweetgrass nodded, her eyes very round, and Ide pulled back, shaking her head once the door was closed. Then she turned at a brisk clip to go meet the Irish Grand Mage.

They hadn’t met before; most of Ide’s meetings with the Sanctuary had so far been through Thurid Guild on the phone, or in person Erskine Ravel or Mr Bliss, who was built like a linebacker and — Ravel told her delicately — had been a soldier. Most of them had been soldiers, she’d been told, but Bliss had apparently sustained some brain damage, and she’d gotten the impression asking for details at the time hadn’t been desirable. So she hadn’t.

The group of faeries was being ushered out of the lobby, as quietly and quickly as possible, as Ide approached from the landing above. She paused for a moment on the steps to get a look at them, and try to figure out which was which. Three of their armoured guards had come with — cleavers, they were called, and they made her shudder — but only one was accompanying the group inside. Of the other two sorcerers, one was a stocky man leaning toward plump, brunette and understatedly handsome, and a tall greying redhead who was handsome in a more dignified way.

Was the Grand Mage the brunet, or the redhead, she wondered. The redhead had experience, judging by the grey in his hair, but that didn’t say much. Around faeries, you could be talking to someone who looked thirty and was really three hundred. But he also wasn’t wearing a suit, just a turtleneck and jeans, which either meant he was an advisor supposed to go unnoticed or such a powerful man no one dared to tell him he looked out of place.

To be fair, the brunet’s suit apparently didn’t come with a tie, and faeries tended to act like they owned every room they walked into, which meant that observation was no more conclusive than the rest.

Ide came down the stairs and the redhead turned toward her with a smile, looking tired the way Fionn had been looking tired lately, but resolute. Ide was just deciding that he must be the Grand Mage when the brunet spoke.

“Minister Kavanagh?” he asked.

“Yes, that’s me,” said Ide, glancing between them and trying to ignore the hulking armoured man behind them both. He wasn’t even wearing the long coat the cleavers wore. He _was_ one of them, wasn’t he? “I’m sorry, I’m not sure which of you is the Grand Mage.”

The redhead tapped his chest and smiled, and held out his hand. Ide blinked and shook it, and glanced in vague confusion at the brunet, while the redhead — the Grand Mage — moved his fingers.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” said the brunet, watching the Grand Mage’s fingers.

It took that long for anything to click, and by the time it did Ide’s face heated. The man was deaf. She really could have done with knowing that beforehand. Of course, she was meant to be the one who knew these things beforehand these days, wasn’t she? This new position had some growing pains.

She cleared her throat, and tried to speak slowly. “It’s my pleasure also, Grand Mage — I’m sorry, no one warned me.” She motioned toward the stairs. “Please come this way. The healer is in one of the rooms upstairs.”

The Gand Mage nodded and Ide turned, feeling discomforted and off-balance, and taking a few breaths to try and re-centre herself.

— Wait. If deaf, maybe she should be walking beside them, so he could see her lips. She slowed a little as the brunet came up beside her, smiled charmingly, and patted her arm. “Don’t worry about it,” he said, and didn’t say what ‘it’ was. “For the record, he’s mute, not deaf, so you can speak normally. I’ll just need to translate for him.”

Amazingly enough, that didn’t salve Ide’s embarrassment at all. “Thank you.”

“Saracen Rue,” he said, and by this time Ide was used to faery names enough that she didn’t blink at it; only took his hand and shook it, even as they were walking. “Do you think you can give us some details before we talk to the healer?”

“Of course,” said Ide, and cleared her throat, pulling herself together. “Early this morning, two of the necromancers from the Temple appeared at Government Buildings and were detained. One of the garda recognised Cleric Baritone from the — siege — six months ago, so they weren’t arrested. Baritone said that the Temple had been overtaken by zealots who had imprisoned Cleric Wreath and his supporters, and then left.”

“Shadow-walked?” Rue asked, and Ide nodded. “Did he say where he was going?”

“To the Italian Temple,” she said, “but not much more than that.”

“Probably because of Annunciata,” said Rue. “She’s from the Italian Temple, and she’s been Wreath’s right hand for a couple of years. If she was one of those imprisoned, the Italian Temple’s going to have something to say about it.”

Ide made a mental note of that, and took them down the hall toward the meeting room Ms Sweetgrass had been — inhabiting. There was no other word for it. “Healer Saffron Sweetgrass, she tells me, can’t use shadows the way the other necromancers can — to be honest, I didn’t get all the details. She’s, um …”

“Abused,” said Rue with a small, humourless smile. “The Temple’s more like a cult than a religion, you can say it.”

Ide breathed a sigh of relief. “Oh, good. I had no idea how I was going to navigate around that one.”

The Grand Mage cleared his throat. Rue craned his head back. “Not all of them are like that,” he said, “but enough are, and the ones in Ireland _definitely_ are. Wreath’s an outlier, and he seems to have people who like him within the Temple, so we were hoping to make some headway there.”

It took a moment for Ide to realise he was quoting, and she cursed herself in her head again, for forgetting — Rue wasn’t actually her contact, here, just the easiest to talk to. She’d almost forgotten the Grand Mage; the only footsteps she could hear behind her was the clunk of the armoured bodyguard.

“So it’s for the best if we can get the Temple stable, hopefully with Wreath’s people in charge,” she said, turning her head, and Rue nodded. He was the only one she could see, anyway. Ide gave up, and turned forward again.

“Pretty much,” Rue said. “Did Healer Sweetgrass say much else?”

“Just about what Cleric Baritone did. She said that High Priest Craven —” What a name. Ide couldn’t help but make a face at that one, and Rue laughed. “— had imprisoned Wreath and his supporters, and that he planned to do something to Wreath.”

“To?” Rue asked with a frown. “Like what?”

“I don’t know,” said Ide, “and she clammed up fast. I get the impression it was classified, or something like that. Here we are.”

They reached the door with the garda outside it, and Ide nodded to them, and knocked. “Healer Sweetgrass? I have the Grand Mage and Mr Saracen Rue with me. Don’t worry, you’re still —”

The door opened before Ide finished, and she blinked at Sweetgrass standing in the middle of it. Her gaze trained over Ide’s shoulder to the man behind her, and it was unexpectedly full of relief.

“Can we come in?” asked Ide, recovering herself, and Sweetgrass startled, and nodded, pulling back into the room at large. It wasn’t set up for housing — it was a meeting room, for God’s sake, if one with comfortable armchairs — but Ide didn’t want Sweetgrass to think they’d just walk all over her.

Ide went in and checked to make sure some of the food and drink on the cabinet was gone. It was. At least she was eating. Ide really needed a psychologist for this …

One of the garda stood in the doorway after the last of the faeries entered, eyeballing the armoured bodyguard nervously.

“Can you see how far away that psychologist is?” Ide asked him, and he nodded and left, and Ide closed the door. She took a few deep breaths and then turned, not entirely sure what she was expecting to see, but sure it would be arcane and otherworldly, probably.

Instead it was the Grand Mage ushering Sweetgrass down into an armchair, holding her hand with a painfully gentle smile that crinkled his eyes, and Sweetgrass’s face wet with tears.

“They’ve imprisoned them all,” she said to him, and the Grand Mage nodded. “And the High Priest is going to do something to Cleric Wreath.”

“Do you know what?” asked Rue, taking a seat a few feet away, and leaning forward with elbows on his knees. He was further away than the Grand Mage was. At least there was that distance. Ide didn’t know _what_ the woman had suffered, but there was a reason she’d tried to keep men out of the room, until now. She knew that much.

At least Sweetgrass didn’t seem to be overly afraid of men, which was a relief.

“The High Priest kept talking about the Death Bringer,” said Sweetgrass, and Ide’s heart pounded suddenly, so hard she had to lean against the wall and take a big shuddering breath. Rue got to his feet.

It took a moment for Ide to manage, “You mean that — armour? Thing?”

Her skin crawled. She remembered what had happened six months ago, and it was after the fact, when what happened sank in, that she started having nightmares. The idea that someone could kill just as casually as that, and then _put people back_ —

Sweetgrass nodded, and dizziness swept over Ide that would have sent her to the floor, if Rue weren’t already at her elbow and guiding her into a chair. “Why would he want to —”

“That’s privileged information,” said Sweetgrass. “Only the clerics know it.”

“But Baritone told you?” Rue asked. The Grand Mage’s fingers hadn’t moved. Ide wasn’t sure whether he _could_ talk like that, Sweetgrass was gripping his hands so tightly.

Sweetgrass nodded, and for the first time since sitting down the Grand Mage stirred, tapping her knuckles and smiling, and moving only one hand.

“He says you don’t need to say anything,” said Rue, and Sweetgrass looked startled.

“Cleric Baritone told me the Sanctuary might need to know …” She sounded uncertain.

“He already knows,” said Rue, and although his voice as steady, when Ide glanced up he looked very pale.

“How — Oh! Cleric Crow.” Sweetgrass went quiet, nodding, but her grip didn’t ease. The Grand Mage tapped her shoulder until she looked at him again.

“Will you tell us what happened, from your perspective?” Rue asked, his voice gentler than before, and Sweetgrass took a deep breath. Her face went suddenly fragile, shored-up; the kind that Ide suspected would fall apart given the slightest prod.

There was a knock on the door. Ide got gratefully to her feet.

“I’ll leave you to it,” she said, as kindly as she could and without trying to make it seem like she was just escaping the room, even though she was. The Grand Mage gave her a small understanding smile that made her feel a little worse, like she’d been seen-through and he wasn’t going to call her on it, and made her escape feeling as relieved as guilty.

Outside, the garda were waiting; one on duty, the other with information.

“The psychologist?” she asked.

“Your office says they’re having trouble finding anyone who’s able to come in on short notice,” he said, “but they should be able to have someone come over by the end of the day.”

“What about _your_ office?”

“Someone’s talking to the Secretary General about the cult aspects.”

Oh, wonderful. Not only a magical cult, but having to deal with O’Byrne at the same time. Ide wasn’t sure whether she’d hoped he’d been possessed six months ago or not, but the experience really hadn’t softened him up all that much.

“I’ll leave it up to him,” she said grimly, “but he’s not going to talk to the healer alone.” There’s already three men in the room with a woman, and Ide didn’t feel totally comfortable leaving them alone, and guilty that she was relieved to be out. “The psychologist we’re getting, are they a woman?”

The garda glanced down at his phone, and nodded. “Should be. And I was given a note that the Taoiseach wants to see the Grand Mage as soon as he’s done here.”

That much, Ide had expected. She nodded, took a deep breath, and gave him a brittle smile. “Well, here I go again.”

She opened the door and stepped back in, hopefully on the end of whatever conversation was happening. Sweetgrass was crying, and the Grand Mage had his arms around her, and Ide would think something untoward had happened except that he was humming and rocking her like a parent might a child.

He really wasn’t anything Ide expected from an accomplished politician. She shook her head and went to Rue, standing by the cabinet where the drinks were, to give them some privacy.

“The Taoiseach wants to see you all as soon as you’re ready,” she told him, and Rue nodded, picking over the drinks as if hoping there was something stronger. Ide could relate.

“We thought he would.” He gave up and went for the apple juice. “Thanks for leaving, by the way. Ms Sweetgrass was raised believing mortals are beneath sorcerers. She probably wouldn’t have been as open with you in the room.”

There was an irony here, and Ide thought she was alone in it until he looked at her sidelong with wry kind of smile, and Ide laughed sardonically.

“I’m learning that a bit, yes. That other fellow from the Sanctuary, the one who isn’t built like a linebacker —”

“Guild,” said Rue.

“He acts a lot like one of our ministers does,” said Ide, “but because I’m not a faery, instead of just being a woman.”

Rue shrugged. “The more things change, the more they stay the same. Here.”

He handed her a glass of juice and Ide drained it, suddenly aware she _was_ thirsty, that she had been on tenterhooks the past twelve hours to six months. “Thanks. So, the Temple. How dangerous could this get?”

“Lethal,” said Rue grimly. “There’s more we know about, but I think we’ll save that for hte conversation with the Taoiseach. Descry?” He raised his voice, turning. The Grand Mage looked up, and nodded, and started to unfold himself from holding Sweetgrass. Ide blinked, suddenly aware that _something_ had happened and she didn’t know what, exactly, but it _definitely had_.

“What did you say your magic was, again?” Ide asked suspiciously.

“I didn’t,” said Rue with a charming smile, and drained his glass to set it down and amble over to the chairs. The Grand Mage moved his fingers.

“Will you be okay here for a while longer?” Rue asked Sweetgrass, very gently, and she nodded. “Thank you. The minister over there has asked for someone to come by who’ll be able to help you sort things out. She’ll be mortal, but that doesn’t mean she won’t be able to help. Okay?”

Sweetgrass nodded again, and Ide couldn’t tell who was speaking — Rue or the Grand Mage. But Sweetgrass sat back, folding her hands and bowing her head in a way that made Ide’s skin crawl. “Thank you for your time, Grand Mage.”

The Grand Mage’s smile was small, and sad. He rose and brushed off his clothes, and Ide turned toward the door, holding out an arm.

“Come this way, please.”


	27. The call

Ide led them back out into the hall, feeling a lot as though she as the vanguard of some warped procession, though at least it wasn’t anything like the necromancers. Rue’s suit wasn’t as crisp as anyone else’s, the Grand Mage’s turtleneck and jeans stood out — Ide suspected he’d had a quick change out of robes that might have drawn attention. The weirdest person among them was the armoured bodyguard who had not yet said anything.

Ide’s back prickled as she took them through the building to the Taoiseach’s office, and somewhere along the line, a phone rang behind her, and then was silenced. Ide turned her head, and caught the Grand Mage putting a phone back in his pocket.

The Taoiseach’s office, like usual, was busy; unlike usual, the moment she knocked on the doorjamb and Fionn saw her, he looked relieved and waved away the people trying to get his attention.

The same tone rang. It sounded like that Pokemon theme song, which seemed incongruous given to whom the phone belonged, and it was again shut off.

“Grand Mage Hopeless,” said Fionn warmly, and Ide stared as the Grand Mage moved into the room to take Fionn’s hand with an equally warm smile.

“Not what you expected?” Rue murmured beside her.

“His name is _Hopeless_?”

“Descry,” said Rue, “to his friends. It makes a difference. Descry?” Rue lifted his voice. “We can probably answer that call, now.”

The door thudded softly shut behind the last of the people leaving, looking curious and wide-eyed at the armoured bodyguard who stationed himself by the door and crossed his arms.

The Grand Mage nodded, and signed something quickly to Fionn.

“Of course,” said Fionn, pulling up chairs for all of them except the bodyguard. “Ide, you’d better stay for this. You’re going to need a lot of this information, probably.”

The phone rang again. It sounded, Ide thought, almost desperate, the way phones do when they’ve been left unanswered and someone _really_ needs to get through.

This time, the Grand Mage actually did answer it, putting it on speaker.

“ _Finally_!” was the first explosive word through the connection, the voice of a young woman or a teen. That explained the ringtone. “What _took_ so long? We’ve got an emergency here!”

“You’re on speaker,” said Rue, “in the Taoiseach’s office.”

There was a pause. “Are you serious? You’re in the Taoiseach’s office, right now? Wow, my dad voted for him — _that’s not the point_.”

The Grand Mage signed. Rue translated. “Take a breath, Valkyrie. Hold it, count to two, then let it out — really, Descry, you don’t need to spell that out, she knows the drill.” All he got in response was a smile and a shrug, and the connection went static as the girl, Valkyrie, obeyed, blowing out air.

“Solomon Wreath is inside Skulduggery’s skeleton,” she said, and Rue sat down very quickly, and then cleared his throat, as if to pretend that that had been on purpose. Even the Grand Mage looked startled and concerned.

“Skulduggery is the skeletal fellow, right?” asked Fionn. Ide was really glad he had, because Rue reacting that way was really unnerving. Grand Mage Hopeless nodded. “And now there’s two people attached to his skeleton?”

“Is that the Taoiseach?”

“Pay attention, Ms Cain,” said someone impatiently a little more distantly. It sounded like the skeleton fellow, but didn’t, at the same time — his voice, but all the wrong intonations.

“I’m focused,” Valkyrie protested. “And we think so, something like that — Skulduggery was talking, and then he collapsed, and then Wreath was in charge of his skeleton. They keep arguing with each other by taking over, it’s really weird.”

“I’m working from limited information here,” said Fionn, “but I get the impression this is bad.”

“It’s bad,” said Rue. “It’s very, very bad. Valkyrie, we’re at the Government Buildings because two of the necromancers left the Temple this morning — escaped, rather — to report that Craven has taken over the Temple and intends to do something stupid.”

“He’s most certainly done that,” said Wreath, “on multiple occasions. Suffice to say that I’m in Skulduggery’s skeleton because _my_ body has been _bloody absconded_.” There was a crack of bone, and then the same voice, much smoother and still annoyed: “Language in front of my apprentice, Wreath.”

“See what I mean?” asked Valkyrie, with the jovial high pitch of someone just this close to hysteria. “They’re fighting over the same body. I don’t think Skulduggery can help it.”

“Well, it was originally his,” said Rue, reading Hopeless’s fingers. “Anything Skulduggery might say is liable to come out of his mouth. Skulduggery, please try not to interrupt Solomon for a few minutes, even to think a smart remark.” There’s a wordless grumble on the other end. “Thank you. Please continue, Solomon?”

“ _Thank_ you,” said Wreath, sounding aggrieved. “Thankfully for us, Craven likes to talk his mouth off while he’s torturing people. He’s better at sigils than I thought: he’s modified the bindings on my body to suppress me and release Death.”

“Into your body?” Fionn asked.

“Into my body, yes, so if you see it, please avoid _shooting_ it. I suspect Craven expected I’d die, but not knowing about the connection between Skulduggery and the armour, never dreamed that I’d have an escape route. Do you know about the Passage?”

Hopeless nodded. Rue said, “Yes.”

“Good,” said Wreath. “I thought Morwenna might have mentioned it at some point. Well, obviously, you know what that’s about, and that’s Craven’s end goal.”

“The Passage?” Ide asked, and then wondered if she would regret that.

“The Passage,” said Wreath, “is the intent, within the Temple, to bring about immortality to the world.”

There was a short pause. Ide decided she _did_ regret it.

“Dare one ask what that would entail?” Fionn said, very carefully.

“Well, you just did, so _someone_ dares,” said Wreath. It was almost certainly Wreath — with a more cutting, impatient tongue and a different voice, but still him, as Ide remembered from six months ago. “It’s a matter of balance. Necromancers hold that the life of the world is based on a lifestream — a source of energy flowing through the planet.”

“It’s a common belief system,” Rue translated, “especially in Asian nations. It relates to a cyclical river of power.”

“Something akin to that, yes,” said Wreath. “The theory goes that damming that river will stop people from dying, and make them effectively immortal.”

“Two questions,” said Fionn, looking pale but his voice remarkably even-tempered given he had come in this morning not expecting another apocalypse. “Firstly, if damming the river will stop people from dying, what’s to stop overpopulation? Secondly, damming it with _what_?”

“If I voted in mortal politics, I think I would have voted for you,” said Wreath, sounding amused. “Damming the river would stop anyone from being born, so overpopulation is hardly a problem. As to the other, there’s really only one thing that can dam a river made up of souls, and that’s by using other souls.”

“The theory of the Passage is that half the population of the planet would be sacrificed for the betterment of the other half,” said Rue, reading Hopeless’s fingers, and he shook his head. “Everyone’s going to have a _field day_ with this. I’m surprised Skulduggery hasn’t broken out already.”

“I think he’s trying to cold-shoulder me,” said Wreath. “At any rate, that’s the Temple’s deep, dark secret: genocide on a planetary scale. Craven believes Death would be able to perform that service. The terrifying thing is, on a purely technical level, he’s probably right. Of course, Craven is an idiot, so that gives us a window of opportunity.”

“How?” Ide demanded, and her voice was high and terrified. She took a deep breath, had to move around, and got abruptly up from her seat to pace around behind the line of chairs. No one censured her for it. She wasn’t sure if she hated that or not. At least that unfairness would have been ordinary, expected, not this … surrealism of the world ending _yet again_.

“Craven assumes Death will do what he says,” said Wreath, “but Death is a child given a body for the first time. When it was possessing me, it was more interested in experiencing things.”

“It murdered half the high priests from here to Asia,” Rue pointed out.

“Well, yes, but you’ll notice that after a while it stopped doing that in favour of doing what it _wanted._ ”

“You’re remarkably level-headed about a suit of armour that tortured you for months on end,” Rue snapped, and took a breath.

“Amazingly, not having a brain is actually helping with that,” said Wreath cheerfully. “I could almost get used to this — but hopefully I won’t. I’m not all too fond of my room-mate.”

A crack of bone. “ _Oy._ ”

“Please focus,” said Rue, watching Hopeless’s fingers. “I’ll talk to you later about how to handle not having a brain. How do _you_ know anything about not having a brain?” Hopeless’s smile was small, tight and amused, and Ide glanced at his fingers but didn’t know one whit of what he said, except that it made Rue grimace. “Oh, right. That.”

“If Death isn’t going to do what this Craven fellow said,” said Fionn, white-lipped, “and I can’t believe I’ve had to say things like that inside of a year, what is Death going to _want_?”

“I don’t know,” said Wreath, “but I suspect it involves leaving the Temple. Death isn’t trained or conditioned to stay indoors and loll around. It’s going to want to experience things. That means being out and about in Dublin.”

“Will it kill people?” Fionn asked. “Are we talking something like the Remnants?”

“It’s got my body, it can’t possess people,” said Wreath irritably. “If you want to know _where_ it will go, I have no idea; but yes, I would assume that it’s willing to kill people if they get in its way of learning about itself and the world. Of course, now _it_ has a brain, so I’ve no idea how that will impact it.”

“Hopeless says it’ll probably get high on dopamine,” Rue offers helpfully. “And then mood crash spectacularly.”

“Lovely,” said Wreath. “Well, Craven will probably let it do what it wants — he can’t very well stop it — but he’ll keep a close eye on it, and in the meantime he’s going to try to keep it happy and pliable. Probably by doing something stupid which throws away a lot of people’s lives. Though the Passage counts, I suppose.”

Hopeless reached out to take Fionn’s hand, just the same way he’d reached out to take Ms Sweetgrass’s not long earlier. Ide watched him, feeling numb, and his gentle smile, and the tap on the desk to draw Fionn’s attention. Only one hand moved, but that seemed to be enough.

“It’d be a good idea to make an alert,” said Saracen. “Death will be extremely dangerous, and it’s unlikely that the ordinary garda will be able to handle him, but in the meantime we need to look at keeping the populace safe.”

“Why can’t we just stop him from getting into the populace at all?” Fionn asked, more sharply than Ide had ever heard him.

“Well try,” said Rue, reaching for his phone. “If we’re lucky, no one’s left the Temple yet, and we can send a detachment of cleavers over to detain everyone.” He stopped, and snorted, and Hopeless smiled crookedly. “Of course, we’ve never been that lucky. So, the best thing to do here is to prepare for the worst: Death getting out of the Temple, and running amok while Craven tries to organise some kind of — I don’t know, smorgasbord.”

“How much of that was you speaking and how much was the Grand Mage?” Ide asked suspiciously.

“Sometimes it’s hard to tell,” said Rue delicately, punching in a number.

“What’s your magic, again?”

“I just know things,” said Rue simply, and then his phone rang on speaker and he put it beside Hopeless’s on the desk.


	28. The arrest warrant

The Sanctuary was a veritable bee-hive, Erskine noticed when he got there with Kenny, which seemed appropriate given Hopeless was the Grand Mage — except for how Hopeless’s bee-hives were a lot more orderly than this.

“Something’s going on,” said Kenny with that vibrant tone of a reporter who _knew_ a story was happening, and was trying to sniff it out.

“Sure looks that way,” says Erskine, looking around. The cleavers were gathering in the lobby, and people were whispering. Erskine saw Tipstaff by the door leading into the Sanctuary proper, and snagged Kenny’s sleeve to drag him over there. “Tipstaff!”

Tipstaff turned and nodded. “Mr Ravel. You’ve come at a good time. Or a bad time, depending on your perspective.”

“Hopeless isn’t here and I need to talk to Guild,” said Erskine dryly. “I’m going with ‘bad’. What’s going on?”

“We’re going to raid the Necromancer’s Temple,” said Tipstaff, and Erskine paused.

“Why?” He glanced at Kenny. “Never mind. Listen, this is Kenny Dunne. He’s a mortal reporter, he’s been told a few dozen things and I’m sure I’ve broken the pact a few dozen times. He’s a candidate.”

A candidate for _what_ , Erskine didn’t say: but with Tipstaff, he didn’t have to. Tipstaff had lived on the Tír for almost a century. Hopeless had turned him up from somewhere; a friend, he said, who needed another option. Erskine generally assumed the first option had been much the same as his. Either way, when Melissa went on maternity leave, Tipstaff had been Hopeless’s first port of call.

In this case, Tipstaff just nodded, glancing at Kenny without even so much as speculation in his eyes. "Of course,” he said. “How limited should his information be?”

“Well, he knows about the city, sorcerers, and the murder of Paul Lynch, which makes him a material witness,” said Erskine. “If the team from the city has arrived, they might want to interview him. Otherwise, he needs to be kept safe, and out of the way of current governmental activities —”

“Hey,” Kenny protested, dragging his hungry gaze away from the cleavers.

“I promised you exclusives,” Erskine told him, “not unlimited access, and I don’t have the authority to do that in the Sanctuary, anyway.” He turned back to Tipstaff. “He can have access to the library, and to some of our general non-specialised processes.” Hopefully there would be so much information at Kenny’s disposal he’ll go nuts trying to make sense of it all, or at least it’ll distract him from the important things going on right now.

“Very good, Mr Ravel,” said Tipstaff. “The team from the city _has_ arrived, as it happens, and they should be in Elder Guild’s office. Please come this way, Mr Dunne.”

Kenny looked longingly at the cleavers, his fingers twitching toward the bag full of stationery he’d thrown together when Erskine announced it was time to leave. But he didn’t resist being escorted away, and Erskine headed for Guild’s office.

The door was open, the office was empty; but Erskine heard Guild’s voice from down the hall, and frowned. He sure hoped Guild had got permission from Hopeless to use his office like that, or the Dead Men would have Words. It was like — an invasion, or something.

Hopeless’s office _was_ bigger than Guild’s, though, which was just as well, because when Erskine knocked and opened the door, it was already pretty full. Guild was at Hopeless’s desk — thankfully not _at_ Hopeless’s desk, or Erskine might have had to up-end his chair; he was on the end of it, leaving the Grand Mage’s chair empty. Bliss stood behind that, arms crossed, and gave Erskine a nod as he entered.

Digger was lounging on the armchair just behind Guild, right in his blind spot, so Guild kept shifting his chair over just to see. Her leg was outstretched, her cane in hand, but the way she twirled it made Erskine think she was mostly using it as a tool for things other than walking on. Bev sat nearby, tinkering with a sigil-based laptop Erskine had brought back from the Tír last month. Hopeless was still getting it integrated with the Sanctuary’s magical systems, but the text-to-speech function was going to be a god-send in as far as Hopeless not getting a permanent migraine from the thoughtspeaker.

Xun stood behind the door, and Modeste was sitting on the bed. Erskine nodded to them both, and ignored the pang in his chest of someone being missing. Bev’s team had been helping the Dead Men a lot lately. Aria was but the first casualty.

“Don’t mind me,” he said as everyone looked up, stepping in and closing the door again, and activating the privacy sigil Guild had forgotten about. Or maybe they’d been waiting for him.

“Erskine, hello,” said Saracen with manic cheer on the speakerphone. “Come to join our pre-apocalyptic think-tank?”

“That’s encouraging,” said Erskine. “Tipstaff said we’re about to raid the Temple.”

“We are,” said Guild shortly. “Bliss is going to lead the cleavers. Macha is still at the Hibernian, so they need a lead.”

“Will Digger be going with?” And the others.

“We don’t know it’s related to the murder of their agent yet.”

“A discussion for a moment,” said Saracen, in that cadence he used when he was quoting Hopeless. “Guild, Hopeless needs you to stay at the Sanctuary and keep things running there. Bliss, prepare for the cleavers having to go out onto the streets.”

Erskine’s eyebrows short up. “Cleavers openly in Dublin?”

“It’s likely that Death is going to be there,” said Saracen, and Erskine felt a bit like someone had yanked the ground out from under his feet. Maybe Rover. Rover liked doing that. Erskine sank down on the edge of the bed in the corner of the room.

“Time out,” he said weakly. “Vile’s armour is out? _Again_? Where’s Skulduggery?”

Guild’s eyes narrowed at him, but Erskine ignored him. As far as anyone knew, Skulduggery had been terribly tortured by Vile during his missing five years, and the Dead Men intended to keep it that way.

“Skulduggery’s busy being possessed by Wreath,” said Saracen. “Death’s in Wreath’s body. Now we’re all caught up, Erskine —” He stopped abruptly in static, and his voice pulled away from the phone a little. “Wait. I don’t want to tell him that. Why do _I_ have to tell him that? That’s _mean_. And also unfair.” There was a moment of silence while Erskine mentally fitted in Hopeless’s mildest look, and he could practically hear Saracen wilt. “Okay, fine, but you owe me a lot of baked goods for this.”

“You have too many of his baked goods as it is,” Erskine said lightly, to cover for his heart pounding.

“Shut up, Ravel. Hopeless wants you to go make a deal with China.”

“Blimey,” Digger muttered, and Bev made a noise, and Erskine tried very hard not to tense up.

“I really don’t want to do that,” he said, very carefully.

“Neither do I,” said Saracen, sounding sulky, “but Hopeless says we need to, and we’ve all agreed, somehow, to do what Hopeless says. Personally, I want to review that contract. I don’t remember signing that one.”

Someone laughed. It sounded a little hysterical.

“Sorry,” said Fionn, “can someone explain to me how China would be able to help?” With a jolt Erskine realised that all of his worlds have actually collided, here in this office. Agents from the Tír, the Taoiseach, Hopeless and Saracen on the other end — 

When did this become his life? He couldn’t remember.

“China’s a person, not a country,” said Saracen. “She’s a collector of information, very good at sigils, and unfortunately for us she was the one who originally wrote them into Wreath’s body. We’re going to need her.”

“Why can’t we just ask the governor for a team of sigil-masons, while we’re at it?” Erskine demanded, trying to tell his heart it could calm down, and his fists they could unclench.

“Hopeless says they might be useful too,” said Saracen, “but not until we know whether or not the necromancers are still in the temple.”

Guild grunted and shook his head, while Bliss turned his gaze to Digger. “Your magic?”

“Burrower,” said Digger with a twirl of her stick. “Temple’s underground, innit? I’ll help.”

“I brought a reporter who was talking to Paul Lynch,” said Erskine. “He’s here, at the Sanctuary. I thought you might want to interview him.”

“In a mo, yeah? Sounds like this Temple sitch is more important.”

“On Hopeless’s behalf, thank you,” said Saracen.

“What’s the Taoiseach doing?” Guild asked gruffly.

“The Grand Mage has recommended a state of emergency,” said Fionn, “but that requires mobilising the garda, and possibly also the military, and that’s going to be awfully hard to explain. I don’t think most of my government will accept ‘a necromantic half-god madman on the streets’ as an excuse.”

“Doesn’t most of your government know about this already?” Guild said shortly, eyeballing Erskine with a pointed frown. Erskine couldn’t even muster the sass to shrug.

“Not all of them,” said Fionn. “A lot of them are finding other reasons to believe what happened six months ago. We’re having some trouble reconciling that, within our own ranks. It was a hell of a truth to dump on everyone, you know.”

Guild grunted, and Erskine could _read_ his face thinking ‘what else do you expect from mortals’, and bristled on Fionn’s behalf.

“Unfortunately, they might not get the choice,” said Saracen. “If things go wrong, and with us they always go wrong, they’ll get _very bad_. As in, ‘someone might drop a nuclear bomb on us’ bad.”

There was a fuzz of static as Fionn exhaled slowly. “I’ll alert the garda, anyway. I need to coordinate with some other people — I don’t have unilateral authority, here, not the same way you do.”

“We’ll be staying here to talk it over more,” said Saracen. “In the meantime, can someone _please_ get Rover and Dex out of bed? They can go with Bliss on the raid team. Dexter’s seen the sigils before, so if Craven’s left any materials laying about he’ll be able to recognise them.”

“And I have to go talk to _China_?” Erskine whined. “Descry, you owe _me_ baked goods after this.”

Saracen squawked. “Hey! He says no promises! What kind of a response is that to your panicking minions, anyway?”

Someone laughed again on the other end. Guild rolled his eyes. Erskine grinned. It felt tight and fake and he still couldn’t unclench his fists, but it was better than nothing.

“Fine,” he said. “I’ll go talk to Adaeze. And China, I guess. _Has_ anyone called Dex and Rover?”

“I’ve sent them a text,” said Bliss, “telling them to meet me at the Temple’s grounds.”

Erskine blew out a breath. “Great. Wonderful. Wish I could be there. And the rest of you?”

“Figured we could help out at the Government Buildings,” said Bev. “We’ve got more experience dealing with faeries than your garda, right? We can direct people and help fill them in on the nitty-gritty.”

“Thank you,” said Fionn, sounding surprised and gratified. “That actually would be helpful — the cleavers unnerve people a lot.”

“No problem.”

“Is that everything?” Saracen asked Hopeless on the other end, his voice a little distant before coming back. “That’s everything for now, he says, which is incredibly ominous. Oh, also, check in every hour. We’re going to keep the hub of things here in the Taoiseach’s office. Buh-bye now.”

“Yay,” Erskine muttered as the call ended, and he checked his phone’s clock. It wasn’t even midday, barely. He could make it over to Roarhaven within a few hours, and by then it’ll be afternoon in the Tír; plenty of time to call on China ASAP. Did he want to wait a few hours? No. He did not. He wanted to get this over with. Fletcher it was.

Possibly he’d better talk to Adaeze, too, they couldn’t leave her out of the loop. “Is it just me, or did this week suddenly get ten times more complicated in the space of a few hours?”

Guild grunted, which Erskine took to mean agreement.

“If this is how you all spend your day,” said Digger, “no wonder you’re all crackpots.”

“Thanks,” said Erskine dryly. “How did you get over here, anyway? Fletcher?”

Bev and Digger gave him identical amused glances, though it was hard to tell with Digger’s sunglasses on. “We brought a truck,” said Bev. “Full of equipment.”

“Unlike some people, we’re not lazy asses who refuse to walk or drive,” added Digger.

“You don’t want me driving,” Erskine informed her while unlocking his phone and finding Fletcher’s number, “believe me.”

“Says you.”

“Says Hopeless’s two trucks I totalled in the space of an afternoon.” Erskine paused. “In the same collision. Hello, Fletcher? How would you like to earn some hazard pay this afternoon?”


	29. The Temple siege

Thirty minutes ago, Dexter and Rover had been nicely dozy. Well, Rover had been dozing. Dexter had been mostly watching him sleep and trying to figure out where he’d put his emotions. He was now pretty sure they were there, somewhere, under the blanketing layer of apathy; it was just a bit hard to find them.

Answering the text on his phone had been almost a relief. He just hadn’t expected it to be Bliss on the other end.

“A whole morning,” he muttered, checking his armour and glancing in his pack for the gauntlet, trying to decide whether or not he wanted to put it on. “A whole morning, and they’ve brought the world to the brink of annihilation. Are there curses that do that?”

“Beats me,” said Rover cheerfully, but it was the cheer with edges in it, as he watched Dexter rifle around his gear. “You’re wearing your armour?”

Dexter looked down at himself. “Should I not have?”

“It sends a message.” Rover tipped his head, and smiled more ferally. “Also, it’s really hot, and now I’m allowed to tell you that without the dumb awkwardness, so there.”

Dexter found a small grin from somewhere and put it on just for him, and Rover made a small noise of approval. The van’s door opened, and Anton stood in the doorway, his gaze finding Dexter first.

“You’re wearing your armour,” he said, sounding surprised. Anton sounding surprised was like a unicorn. Dexter threw up his hands.

“I can take it _off_ if it’s bothering you both that much!”

“Yes please!” Rover chirped, plonking his chin in his hands.

“No, thank you,” said Anton, in a tone that indicated he might have been rolling his eyes, if he weren’t Anton, even though Anton wouldn’t ordinarily have that tone to begin with.

Comparing Anton now to Anton like he was was giving Dex a headache. Himself was bad enough — maybe he’d just stop it, where Anton was concerned.

“It seemed like the best thing to wear,” Dexter said, climbing out of the van in front of the Mount Jerome Cemetary and Crematorium. Down the street, the cleaver’s van was just pulling up — followed by two more. So Hopeless was pretty serious about this, then.

“It isn’t open war yet,” said Anton.

“Yet,” said Dexter.

“Maybe I should wear my armour,” Anton murmured, glancing back into the van as Rover climbed out of it.

“It fits surprisingly well, after all this time,” said Dexter, tugging on the sleeves and deciding he probably wouldn’t need his gauntlet.

“Ghastly updated them,” said Anton.

“He did? When?”

“After the golf club massacre,” said Anton simply, and Dexter remembered, vaguely, the conversations going on in the Hibernian — the fact that they had all been joking about a calm before the storm. Ghastly had taken that seriously, apparently. Or possibly he’d just super needed something to do in the aftermath of what came after.

“I’ll make sure to send him a note,” he said as the first of the cleavers’ vans pulled up beside them, and Bliss climbed out. “This seems oddly familiar,” Dexter muttered, and Rover threw his arm across Dexter’s shoulders.

“With one major change! This time, I don’t have a broken jaw!”

“That _is_ something to be pleased about,” Dexter agreed as Bliss came over.

“Shudder,” said Bliss with a nod. “We weren’t expecting you. You aren’t to go into the Temple.”

“May I ask why?” said Anton politely, and with an undercurrent of tension.

“I’ve been told your gist is loose,” said Bliss.

“It is and it isn’t,” said Anton.

“Until we’re more familiar with how it works, you may be a liability on the front line.”

Anton frowned — actually frowned, and said nothing. But Dexter saw his jaw clench, like he was biting the inside of his cheek, and he turned deliberately away toward the back of the van, to pull out Rover’s armour and push it at him.

“Very well,” he said, as neutrally as he could probably manage, and terser than Anton’s ever been.

“Frankly,” said Dexter to Bliss, “if _that_ didn’t make him go ballistic, he’s probably fine. He’s not a wild animal, you know.”

“The gist is,” said Bliss.

“No, it’s a chained one.”

“Enough.” Bliss turned toward the van and Dexter stuck his tongue out at his back, and turned around to find Rover looking at him wonderingly.

“Hi, I’m going to kiss you now,” he said, and did, which was frankly a much better way of passing the time than having to listen to Bliss.

“Put this on,” said Anton, pushing Rover’s armour at him once he’d pulled away. “And don’t get distracted.”

“Yes, Aodh,” Rover chirped, and hopping in the van to shimmy out of his outer layers and into the armour. Dexter turned away from that to watch the way the cleavers were fanning out. It wasn’t a good trade, but duty called, and so forth.

“It looks like we know about a lot more entrances than I thought we did,” Dex observed, and stretched his arms, and his legs, making sure he was limber before heading over to Bliss. “What’s the plan?”

Bliss was in charge. He was an Elder. It should have felt weird, so Dexter was just going to assume it _was_ weird, and work from there.

“Heyo, Dex-o,” said Digger, sitting in the back of the van as Dexter came around it. He lifted his hand automatically, blinked and looked again.

“What are _you_ doing here?”

“Is this what happens when we take a morning off?” Rover lamented, flinging his arms around Dexter’s shoulders and resting his chin on one. “We _miss things._ Hi, do we have a plan? I like plans.”

“We’ve been given an overview of the Temple’s layout,” said Bliss, “including at least two secret exits the cleavers have covered. Detective Digger will be securing the children.”

“They’ve got children?” Dexter asked, and then realised that was a stupid question and held up his hands, shaking his head. “Don’t mind me. Are they all out of the way, at least?”

“Should be,” said Digger, poking a hastily-drawn map. “Unless the fancy-pants hereabouts have taken em walkabout.”

“Exactly what are we hoping to find in there?”

“Resistance,” said Bliss. “If the Temple has been emptied, we’re too late.”

“Got it,” said Dex. “One of _those_ raids.”

“Too late for what?” Rover asked.

“It means the mancers’re on the move,” Digger explained, “with their Death Bringer.”

“Um.” Rover lifted a hand. “That sounds bad. Is that bad?”

“It does sound bad,” Dexter agreed, and looked at Bliss. “Where do you need me?”

“At the secondary entrance here,” said Bliss, pointing at the map. “I will be at the front entrance. Larrikin, you take this one here.” He pointed again. “Detective Digger will secure the children, as said. They should be here.” He pointed one last time.

For such a hastily-drawn map, it was pretty detailed, Dexter thought. The Necromancer’s Temples were usually things of mystery and intrigue — they didn’t let outsiders in all that much, and no one wanted to try it out. Skulduggery, Bane and O’Callaghan might be the only people who have seen the inside of the Temple in decades, if not centuries.

“Where did you get this much detail?” he asked.

“Wreath gave it to us,” said Bliss. “It appears Death has been summoned into his body.”

Rover made a noise like a puppy dying, and Dexter waited for a reaction. Mostly, he felt his heart beating faster.

“That _is_ really bad,” he said, casting around for a quip and finding none. “How did he manage to tell us that?”

“He’s possessing Pleasant,” said Bliss, and despite himself, despite everything, Dexter snorted laughter. When he tried to look at it it was gone, and he couldn’t find where the humour was; but since it was an unprompted reaction, he’d take what he could get.

“Okay.” He shrugged, resettling the armour on his shoulders. “We ready?”

“Just waiting for you,” said Digger, and hopped off the end of the truck. Dexter spotted her cane in the background. Even though she’d been using it wherever she went, she couldn’t be that bad off if she was leaving behind.

She saw him looking, and grinned behind her sunnies. “What, you lot think you’re the only ones who can talk it up? Play me another one.”

“Where shall I go?” Anton asked, coming up behind them with the customary quietness that made Rover jump and squawk, and Dexter couldn’t quite tell if it was a put-on or not. Anton had always been able to sneak up on Rover.

“Stay here,” said Bliss. “If our containment lines are breached, you’re not to interfere. If an escape is required, be ready. And if you see anyone escape, report it.”

Anton grunted and turned to go back to his van, his back a towering mass of tension. Rover shook his finger at Bliss.

“You’re going against Hopeless’s orders, you know. He said to act like everything is normal.”

Bliss looked at Rover with his cold blue eyes. “Nothing,” he said, “about the group of you is normal.”

“That’s offensive, that is,” Rover muttered as Bliss turned away, and he kissed Dexter’s cheek and pulled away with the silly grin he wore whenever he realised he was allowed to do that now. “Seeya on the flip side, wifey.”

* * *

As it turned out, the Temple was nearly empty. ‘Nearly’, because there were just enough necromancers still in there to make things difficult. Dexter waited at his assigned entrance, counting down on his phone’s clock to execution: and then he and his group of cleavers penetrated the Temple.

They came out in an office, through what was very obviously meant to be a secret passage, and within a few seconds the necromancer who’d been at his desk was on the floor, his item flung away along with one of his fingers. Kenspeckle could put it back on.

“Quiet please,” said Dexter, and tried not to sound so cheerful. It was probably inappropriate. He glanced up at the cleavers. “We’re trying _not_ to maim people, okay? Thanks.”

He wrapped the man’s hand in a chunk of his robes and sat him up against the wall.

“This is — discrimination —” the man managed to say, glaring but terrified. Dexter was familiar with the combination.

“No, this is a raid,” said Dexter. “We hear you lot have done something stupid. Where’s Wreath and Craven?”

“The High Priest doesn’t tell me his day-to-days,” said the man sullenly. “I’m the quartermaster. All I know is how many robes he’s asked tailored lately.”

“Useful.” Not at all useful. Dexter made sure the necromancer’s item was far, far away, and stationed one of the cleavers to watch the necromancer, another to watch their exit, and took the rest with him toward the centre of the Temple.

Even from back here, he could hear the sounds of Bliss’s entry: the screams and shouting, and stone cracking where doors were slammed shut in his face to no avail. There was a particular kind of sound to Bliss being a juggernaut.

“Go give them a hand,” Dexter said to his cleavers, and added: “No killing, minimal maiming. Hopeless wouldn’t be happy.”

They filed off, and a moment later Dexter heard the sounds of the necromancers’ line being breached from behind, and an awful lot of screams. He winced, hoping the cleavers weren’t going blade-happy.

He himself slipped behind the line that was the necromancers rushing to defend against the breach, and went deeper into the warren that was the Temple. Rover was on the other side, Digger somewhere between — at least the kids should be safe.

But if he recalled from the map, there should be something like a dungeon — or what he hoped was less of a dungeon and more of a guarded waiting area. They didn’t know how many of Wreath’s supporters had been killed outright, mostly because Wreath himself hadn’t known; he’d been captured and separated before he woke up strapped to a table.

Wreath hadn’t been able to say where that table had been, either, which meant they were searching, and Dexter might well turn a corner and run into Lord Vile’s armour turned into his own person using a borrowed body.

He tried to think it in as stupid a way as he possibly could. It didn’t really help, except to sound stupid as well as terrifying.

The darkness grew more of what it was, and dank. Dexter shivered, and pulled his hood up to guard his ears. It was _cold_ down here. No wonder Wreath wore thick suits.

There was talking up ahead, people sounding nervous, and Dexter paused by a corner to listen.

“Do you think they’re okay?” someone asked, and they _definitely_ sounded nervous. Someone younger, probably. “I mean, if so many of the clerics left …”

“We’ll be fine,” said someone else, more confidently, but in a tone where they were trying to convince themselves as much as their companion. “The Sanctuary wouldn’t dare raid us. All the Temples in the world would come down hard on Ireland.”

“I don’t know … I mean, what if the other Temples support Wreath?”

“They won’t. Why would they? Wreath isn’t the Death Bringer, it’s just inside of him. We’re fulfilling everyone’s goals, here.”

Clerics, Dexter thought. Only the senior clerics, he’d been told, would know about the Passage, whatever that was. And neither of them sounded too convinced, at least in as far as believing that everything was just peachy. Dexter made a quick decision, thought it over for another second more and decided he wasn’t going to get much better than that.

He came around the corner, his hood up and face lowered, and staggered a little against the wall to hide the glow of magic in his hands. He saw a pair of robed and hooded guards at a door, and they both turned startled toward him.

“Help …”

He tried to make it as strangled as possible, and slumped against a wall. They both hurried toward him, and as soon as they were close enough he shot them with the scaled-down beams in his hands. He lowered the unconscious bodies gently, to avoid anything more than headaches from having been stunned just a little, and searched their pockets for keys.

Turned out it was a good idea to leave his gauntlet behind. He would never have convinced them of that if he’d been wearing it.

In two seconds the door was unlocked and Dexter strode through, keeping his palms open and at the ready. This time the murmur of voices was much louder, and Dexter heard someone shrieking.

He hurried his pace and came into an open room, almost face-to-face with a necromancer for once not wearing his hood — and this one Dexter recognised.

“Hey,” he said. “You’re Bison Dragonclaw.”

Dragonclaw snarled and shadows surged, and Dexter diffused them in twin beams of light, and spun away around — something. A cage, he thought. Was this a cage? Wonderful. All they needed was blood on the floor and limbs impaled on various tools everywhere, and they’d have a perfect torture chamber.

“Keep out of this!” Dragonclaw shouted. “This is no place for the Sanctuary!”

Dexter glanced around, saw more cages. Some of them had people inside. Dexter really hoped none of them were hurt and the screaming had been anger or fear. Injury would be a pain to have to handle, especially if he had to evacuate.

Maybe he shouldn’t have sent the cleavers away.

“I don’t know,” he said. “This looks like exactly the kind of place where sanctuary’s needed. Craven already had Wreath; what did these people ever do to you?”

“They would have been the first to be sacrificed,” said Dragonclaw. He’d moved — his voice was coming from a few feet closer than he had been. Dexter saw the shadows shifting against the wall and put enough of a glow in his hands to ward off the darkness, casting ambient light across the floor.

That was going to give away his position. Hm. He maybe should have thought this through a little better.

“See, it’s the talk of sacrifice that’s going to get you all killed,” said Dexter conversationally, moving his hands in the air to make use of the energy, now he’s got it. He shaped a doll out of nothing, something with a head and black coverings, something that could be mistaken for him in the darkness. 

He left it there, with a bit of a glow, and snuffed out his to steal away behind the line of cages.

“The Temple manages its own affairs.”

One of the cages had animals in it. Dexter ducked his head a little more, saw a sorry miserable chicken. They were keeping people in the same place they kept their livestock? That was what supermarkets were for.

Wreath still lived in this place? Suddenly Dexter wasn’t feeling quite so sympathetic. 

He heard the thud of something striking his construct, and felt the puppet die, and Dragonclaw cursing. Dexter came around the side of the cages to see Dragonclaw’s back presented to him, all perfectly visible, and sent him to the floor with a well-placed beam between his shoulder-blades. Not a lethal one. Hopeless had said to avoid killing.

“You know,” he told Dragonclaw conversationally as he moved over to tie his hands, “you’d probably get a lot more bang for your buck if you just bought eggs and chicken at a grocery store.”

“Not all Temples are so irrational,” said Annunziata from somewhere down the line of cages. Dexter straightened up, keys in his hand.

“You believe in something called a _Death Bringer_. That sounds pretty irrational.”

“The Grand Mage believes in a giant man in the sky,” said Pandemona, sounding terse and grumpy.

“There is that,” Dexter admitted. He moved down the line of cages, unlocking the ones with people in them, until he reached Pandemona and Annunziata. The cages weren’t even large enough for adults to stand; they all crawled out and stretched with relief. Even Annunziata moved like someone older, at least until she could finally straighten with a sigh.

“Adrien?” Pandemona asked before she was even halfway out, gripping the sides of the cage. 

“He went to the Italian Temple to get help,” said Dexter. “Sent Saffron Sweetgrass to the Government Buildings. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you and the Taoiseach’s people were on good terms.”

“We’re not all irrational despots,” said Pandemona. “Where are our items?”

Dexter glanced around uselessly and then shrugged, hands turned toward himself. “Where would they keep them?”

“Probably near the Shadow Furnace.”

“I guess I’m going to the —” He made a face. “— _Shadow Furnace_ , then.” He vaguely recalled a room labelled so, on the map, and pulled out his phone to glance at the image he’d taken before he’d come in.

“Wait,” said Annunziata. “What about Cleric Wreath?”

“He’s in Skulduggery’s skeleton right now,” said Dexter absently, “since Death has his. And the rest of his body, actually.”

“Cleric Wreath is —” Annunziata’s horrified voice told Dexter he’d done it again. She cut herself off to take a deep breath, and Dexter grimaced.

“He’s not … dead dead. I mean, his body is still around, just with someone else walking around in it, so theoretically I don’t see why he can’t go back the same way he got there. But, yeah, it sounds like Craven’s taken Death someplace else.”

“We heard them talking,” said Pandemona, and she was pale. “It sounds as though Death had some demands before fulfilling the task Craven desires of it. There may still be time.”

“What kinds of demands?” Dexter asked, but they both shrugged. “Helpful.”

“We’re not the ones who created the armour,” said Pandemona shortly. “We’re only cleaning up the Dead Men’s mess.”

Oh, that sure was a stab of anger, Dexter was pretty sure. “If this is anyone’s mess,” he said, very calmly, “it’s Mevolent’s.” He shoved his phone in his pocket and turned away. “Stay here, put Dragonclaw in one of the cages. The cleavers should be here at some point; tell them I said you’re to be guarded, if I’m not back before then. No one should leave the room, that’s a good way to put yourself in the line of fire. I’ll be back with your items as soon as I can.”

“Thank you, Dexter Vex,” said Annunziata, and for her Dexter could spare a warm smile before heading back out into the Temple.

* * *

The furnace wasn’t far, but the Temple was a tangle of hallways and rooms, and even consulting his phone at intervals it took Dexter longer than he liked to get there. It was in the heart of the Temple, too, where necromancers were still resisting. Dexter shot as many of them in the back as he could, non-lethally, and kicked their items away while the cleavers approached.

By the time he reached the forge there wasn’t much of a resistance left, and he was able to slip in through a back door rather than the giant ones on the far side still being defended.

 _This_ place was warm. He hadn’t even realised he was shivering until he got here and suddenly didn’t have to, with the heat on his face. It wasn’t just one room, but many: strung along beside each other like alcoves, and in some cases opposite each other.

The walls were filled with objects. Dexter couldn’t tell what was tool and what was decoration, or what might be a necromantic item; he opted not to touch any of them, just in case. The crates of materials, though, those he recognised — precious metals, for making magical objects.

He peered in one. It was empty. Guess they weren’t making them from virgin materials. Probably better that way. Recycling, and whatever. Erskine’d be pleased, except probably not.

“If I were a crazy necromantic zealot,” Dexter muttered, “where would I put the objects belonging to people I’ve imprisoned, and which are liable to murder me if I touch them?”

He glanced down at the crates, and back up at the long line of alcoves. Most of them looked dark, and unused. How many things got forged here these days, and how many did the necromancers just buy from a supermarket? Judging by the livestock kept in that room, it was hard to tell.

Then again, sacred _Shadow Furnace_ and whatever. Maybe their daily forges were elsewhere.

Slowly Dexter moved down the room, peering in crates and using a long conjured rod to poke at things on the tables. They’d probably be in a bag, or something … probably. If they were even together. 

They were probably together. It made no sense to sort them, at least not yet. But he didn’t even know what most of the objects are. Pandemona’s was … what? Not sure. Annunziata’s was a brooch, but judging by the detritus on the tables, a lot of necromancers used brooches. 

Funny. Dexter hadn’t really thought about necromantic items off an assembly line before now.

He’d gotten almost to the end and was about to do another pass when there was a rustle from somewhere behind him, down past the alcoves. Dexter dropped the rod and spun, and on a thin layer of magic caught someone’s arm just in time to divert it. They grunted, he kicked, and his assailant pulled back suddenly and — 

Ran?

Dexter stood for a moment, catching his balance and his breath, and then took off after them, slamming through the door they tried to throw in his way. 

“Hey!” 

Wait. No. Using air while running, stupid. Dexter closed his mouth and poured on speed, and when another door was slammed shut in his face this time he just used his energy beams to break it down, barging through with his hood over his face to protect him from the shards of wood.

He was prepared for the blow to come on the other side, catching it on his crossed arms; but his attacker lashed out with his knee and twisted, and Dexter jumped back, and his attacker ran again.

Not a necromancer, Dexter thought as he took off after, slamming through doors. The hallways were starting to look vaguely familiar now. 

Not a necromancer, the coat was a coat, and brown, and whoever this was knew how to fight with fists, not magic —

His chest was burning. Dexter breathed evenly and kept going, his focus on the back of the attacker in front of him. A cleaver came out of the hall and Dexter shouted, but the person he was pursuing struck the cleaver in the chest as he passed, and the cleaver fell back in a flash of light.

Ah, _crap._ Or maybe good! A warlock! Lovely! That was a lead if Dexter ever saw one.

They burst into the quartermaster’s wing, and Dexter sprinted past the bodies of cleavers and the necromancer slumped against the wall, following the warlock out through the not-so-secret passage and into the cemetery. His breath rattled in his chest. He couldn’t find the air to call out. But he saw, down the road, Anton’s van, and hoped Anton was paying attention.

The warlock took off down the other way, because of course he did, and cut through a slip of an alley between two buildings, throwing rubbish bins to the ground behind. Dexter vaulted them and took off, his breath rasping, his limbs turning leaden. 

That was terrible. He’d really been going easy on himself … he was practically out of shape.

He’ll fix that when this is over, Dexter promised himself, careening around a corner with his feet a little less controlled than he remembered. He just saw the warlock vanish around another corner, and sprinted after him, and this alley led out into an inhabited street.

It was late enough in the morning that people were out and about, late enough that there was some cover; but Dexter was still quick enough to see the warlock pulling on another coat — or maybe the same one, turned inside-out.

“H- hey!”

Dexter’s voice came hoarse and breathless, and it was a surprise; but he saw the warlock’s head turn, saw everyone’s heads turn, and took off after him again, shoving past people without even the breath to apologise.

His chest really hurt, and his feet didn’t seem to want to go as fast as they could, and his vision was starting to swim; but he was getting closer to the warlock —

The warlock was getting closer to _him_ , Dexter realised with a start, because Dexter was wobbling and clutching the wall. His pulse was roaring in his ears — at least, he thought it was his pulse — and his chest really, _really_ hurt. His arms felt leaden.

The warlock grinned down at him, and Dexter tried to take a breath.

This couldn’t be how he was going to die, he thought dimly. Was this how warlocks killed? Running their prey to death? No, don’t be stupid, Dex, they suck out their souls …

There was a screech of tires and the warlock leapt away suddenly and people screamed as Anton’s van vaulted the curb and scraped past a lamp-post to get between Dex and the warlock. The warlock turned and ran into the confused crowd, and Anton’s door slammed shut.

“You, call an ambulance,” Dexter heard Anton snarl at some poor passerby, but Dexter couldn’t see who, because his vision was bleeding white, and he couldn’t breathe. He was aware of someone trying to lift him up — but mostly it just felt like falling, and he didn’t remember anything after that.


	30. China's ally

"Thanks for this, by the way," said Erskine to Fletcher as the ferry moved to dock at the Green. It hadn't taken long for Fletcher to come pick him up; most of the travel time was waiting for the ferries, since, as Fletcher cheerfully said, it would probably cost more to pay Fletcher to get him across the city.

The teenager was really getting into the business side of things. Erskine was trying not to resent it, but it did make things a bit of a pickle when he couldn't justify the expense to the Sanctuary. It was probably just as well, in this case. He needed the time to think about what he was going to say to China, and also figure out how he wasn't going to wring her neck right there and then.

Sometimes teleporting was probably not a good idea.

Not that not teleporting had helped, because Erskine still hadn’t figured out how he wasn’t going to wring China’s neck.

"Hey, I'm getting hazard pay out of this," said Fletcher. "If things are that bad in Ireland, it means I can throw my lot in with all of you and make bank on it."

"Exactly what do you do with all that wealth?" Erskine asked dryly, but he was genuinely curious. Fletcher had always teleported in and out of hotel rooms, hadn't bothered paying for anything. Sometimes not even food. It was one of the reasons the Tír had tried to put a leash on him, such as it was, but Erskine didn't remember Fletcher actually changing his ways _that_ much.

Unexpectedly, Fletcher reddened. "Don't know yet."

"That kind of sounds like you do," said Erskine teasingly, but his smile was relaxed and unjudgemental. Fletcher shifted uncomfortably.

"There might be a girl," he muttered, and something in Erskine's mind pinged. "Figured I could, dunno, get enough together to take her somewhere really special …”

“Might this girl be Valkyrie?” Erskine asked, and Fletcher’s blush deepened, and he ran a hand self-consciously through his hair.

“I didn’t say that!”

“I was a young man once,” Erskine reminded him dryly, “and believe me, young men are never as subtle as they think they are.” Although Valkyrie may not have realised it. If she had, Erskine was sure the Dead Men would have heard about it. Erskine frankly wasn’t even sure she looked at boys, unless they happened to be Dexter with his shirt off.

To be fair, everyone looked at Dexter with his shirt off.

“Didn’t say it was Valkyrie,” said Fletcher stubbornly, and Erskine shook his head with a soft laugh.

“Well, word of advice from someone who got himself into far too much trouble with the young ladies: if you’re interested in wooing someone, the best way to do that is to ask them what _they_ want.” He paused. “And if they ask you for a werewolf fur shawl, pass hard and walk very fast in the opposite direction.”

Fletcher frowned. “What’s a werewolf got to do with anything?”

Fortunately for Erskine, or rather right on time, just as he calculated, the ferry thudded into the dock right then and he didn’t have to answer. Instead he just strode off, almost whistling; then decided what the hell and actually did. Things were dire, everything was going to hell, but he was still going to take the mickey out of a young teleporter.

He was pretty sure he heard Fletcher mutter something uncomplimentary behind his back, too, which made it all worth it. For the few minutes it took to walk into the Tower, Erskine’s smile as genuine.

Then reality reasserted itself as they reached the stairs down into the precinct, and Fletcher motioned awkwardly. “I’m gonna go see if they can use a hand getting — I don’t know, stuff to Ireland or something.”

"When you’re done there,” said Erskine, “Can you go check on Ghastly? We haven’t heard from him yet. I’m getting a little worried.”

Maybe he was just avoiding Erskine. Maybe he was sulking Tanith was in England. Maybe he’d just decided to have a peaceful morning in his shop. Either way, Erskine didn’t like not knowing what was going on with one of the Dead Men when things were this dire.

“Sure thing.” Fletcher vanished rather than actually do something as mundane as walk down the stairs, and Erskine shook his head as he went for the governor’s office. At least, he thought grimly, he wouldn’t need to rouse her in the middle of the night; but it was still much sooner than he expected to have to see Adaeze again.

He had to. It was China he wanted, but China had asked for sanctuary, in a literal fashion — sanctuary from Ireland. Erskine couldn’t get to her without permission, and probably without an escort. He vaguely remembered some of those laws. He was sure enough they hadn’t changed, anyway.

The governor’s office was not quiet in the dead of night, this time. This time, it was a hum of activity surpassing even ordinary office hours. Erskine stepped out of the elevator ignoring the double-takes he got — fewer than there had been. People were getting used to him. Not sure how he felt about that.

Alice was already there, her face tight but at least not because it was him she was looking at. She nodded at him, a little less jerkily than before.

“Mr Ravel.”

“Erskine,” said Erskine. “Is Adaeze in?”

“Updates on the situation?”

“And then some. The necromancers are being stupid. Some of them might need sanctuary, and the ones that don’t probably need killing.”

He said it lightly — too lightly, he could tell an instant later, by the way her face changed. People on the Tír didn’t take killing lightly. He’d built it that way. But sometimes he forgot, at times like this, that what was meant to be humour didn’t sound like it.

Come to think of it, he hadn’t really been joking, either.

It was really better for everyone if he wasn’t considered a prince of this place.

“I’ll see if she has a moment,” said Alice, and signalled one of the assistants for a quick murmured conversation, before sending the assistant in through the door. Alice herself didn’t move. Good.

Erskine glanced around, found an empty chair, and threw himself into it, hands behind his head and gazing up at the ceiling.

China, he thought. No killing China. Not maiming China. Probably not even _touching_ China. He could probably manage that, despite the low burn of anger in his chest whenever he thought about her.

Dealing with her honourably was going to be the hard part. Hopeless wanted them to promise not to kill her if she came back … but how far did that promise extend? Erskine knew Hopeless well enough to know he’d like the promise to be long-term, probably, but Erskine really wasn’t sure he could handle that.

On the flip side, if she came back to Ireland, she wouldn’t be souring the Tír. Decisions, decisions.

Footsteps drew his attention down to Alice.

“She’s with Khutulun,” said Alice, “but they can both see you. It’s about Department X, anyway.”

“Thanks,” said Erskine, getting to his feet and heading in through the door held open for him by a wide-eyed intern. He made sure to smile at her as he passed, just to make her day a little more surreal and hopefully a little more pleasant.

The office still bore some indications of the fight that had happened here a few years ago. The window was repaired, but the carpet was different; the desk was also new, ish, and there was a long scraping divot dug out of the wall that no one had bothered to fix. Adaeze rose from her seat as he entered, and saw him looking, and followed his gaze.

“A reminder,” she said.

“Of what?”

She smiled. “Of what happens when we work together.”

Erskine glanced at the divot again. “That’s a positive spin on it.”

“None of our people died,” said Adaeze simply. “I was thinking about having a painting put inside, on the stone directly.”

Erskine could probably see it. Something — meaningful, maybe. Something hopeful. Hopeless would like it, and the thought relaxed Erskine somewhat, so that he was smiling a little as he turned toward Khutulun to nod toward her.

“Good to see you again. I hope the conversation I interrupted was as hopeful as Adaeze is feeling today.”

“Your agent, Tanith Low, has been in contact with us,” said Khutulun, and Erskine straightened a little, his attention now undivided. “She did find one of our agents — dead — but another is still alive. She’s securing him now, and they’ll try to make their way back to Ireland to use the Eire Bridge to return and report.”

Oh, damn. “That might be difficult,” said Erskine grimly. “Dublin is going to be a war-zone for the next few hours.”

Adaeze beckoned toward the chairs and sat, and after a moment Erskine sat with her. Khutulun didn’t, but she was about as tall as them standing, and for a moment she looked like a miniature Corrival, hands on her hips and with the frown. Erskine suppressed a smile. He seemed to recall they got on well together.

Hopefully they could get this wrapped up before they had to drag Corrival back to Ireland as the head of some hastily slapped-together military division.

“What’s happening in Dublin?” Adaeze asked. 

“The necromancers,” Erskine explained. “The situation is — complicated, but suffice to say they’ve managed to summon a sort-of demi-god into someone’s body, and it’s running amok. Or about to; we’re trying to get ahead of it.”

“How powerful are we talking about?” Khutulun asked, still frowning. It didn’t seem to be a frown of censure, at least. One thing she had on Corrival.

“Powerful enough that I’m honestly not sure a nuclear warhead isn’t warranted,” ERskine admitted. “If Dublin falls, that might be the only thing that would _stop_ this particular fellow. We’re trying to make sure that doesn’t have to happen.”

“What do you need from us?” Adaeze asked, and for a few moments Erskine was too warmly relieved to say much. She owed him nothing, she owed them nothing; and yet. If this was what having real allies was like, not just disparate nations thrown together in the desperation of a war —

He might actually have been about to think that he knew where Guild was coming from, and stopped that thought in its tracks.

“The body into which it was summoned belongs to a man named Solomon Wreath,” he said. “The — demi-god was sort-of imprisoned inside of him. China Sorrows was the one who wrote the bindings. She wasn’t the one who created them, but right now she’s the one who knows them best.”

He actually managed to keep his voice even throughout all that, and hoped Hopeless would be proud, because it had been really hard.

“You want to talk to China Sorrows,” said Adaeze, and Erskine nodded. “You’re aware that she asked for sanctuary against you.”

“I’m aware,” said Erskine shortly.

“She seems convinced that one of the Dead Men will have her murdered.”

“Seeing as she helped murder one of us,” said Erskine, “that seems a fair trade.”

Maybe he shouldn’t have said that; but it made Adaeze pause. “Skulduggery Pleasant?”

Oh, well. Die all, die merrily.

“She was instrumental in causing his death,” said Erskine. “We found out last year, Hopeless already knew — Skulduggery doesn’t.” Neither did Ghastly. They might need to change that. Of them all, Ghastly was the one most likely to be able to talk Skulduggery down from doing something — well. If not foolish, then currently ill-advised. Hard to tell whether that was more easily done if Ghastly didn’t know, or if he did.

Adaeze regarded him for a moment, and then looked down at his hands, and Erskine realised they were clenched. He took a breath, let it out slowly, and slowly unfolded his fingers.

“I’m not sure whether telling me this is a mark for or against you,” said Adaeze.

“Given what’s at stake,” said Erskine, “does it really matter?” He shook his head, tried to smile. It didn’t work. “Hopeless told me to come here and make a deal with China. We need her in Ireland. If it were anyone else asking, and the situation were different, I’d be a lot more reticent, but …”

“But,” said Adaeze, “it _is_ Hopeless asking, and the situation is what it is.” She looked at Khutulun, beckoning. “You know that we can’t force China to go with you.”

“Yes.”

“Any deal you make will have to be on your own merits. We’re neutral in this situation.”

“I know,” said Erskine, and it felt like ashes in his mouth. What was the Tír policy on housing murderers? He used to know. He’d written those laws, too. The Tír had been built to give sanctuary to anyone, even criminals. Most criminals had been petty, of course; thieves or prostitutes, the down and out who had no other choice.

But there were some murderers here. The Children, for one.

It was a place of reformation. Hopeless had seen to that. Probably because he had Skulduggery in mind … probably because he’d known what would be needed; that murder, after all, wouldn’t be a deal-breaker.

It was just that China didn’t seem to want to reform, just take advantage, and that _rankled_.

“You’ll have to be guarded when you meet her,” said Khutulun, her focus on a tablet she was swiping through with her fingers.

“I thought as much.”

“And you will need to be disarmed.”

Erskine smiled grimly. “Didn’t bring any weapons with me.”

The Tír wasn’t a place where he felt the need to have weapons.

“No,” said Khutulun, looking up. “I mean you’ll need to be _disarmed_.”

It took another minute for her meaning to sink in, and then Erskine jerked back, and then to his feet to pace behind the chair, exhale slowly, and unclench his fists again. He turned to rest his hands on the back of the chair in which he’d been sitting.

“You mean I need to have my magic bound.”

His heart was pounding. He hadn’t — really considered that. He hadn’t imagined it. He’d had his magic bound before — but always only under the worst of circumstances. Just the thought of it makes his heart jackhammer.

“Yes,” said Khutulun. “Ms Sorrows named the Dead Men specifically as the people by whom she felt threatened. It’s the only way.”

“What about _hers_?”

He sounded brittle and he knew it, but he couldn’t put it away. Adaeze and Khutulun exchanged glances, and then Adaeze said gently, “Erskine, she isn’t obliged to meet with you. What’s the likelihood that she’ll agree to it, if there was a requirement she’d have her magic bound as well?”

Erskine took a deep breath, and another. Neither of them really helped. “Probably negative.”

He felt tight in his skin, felt jingling with nervous tension and a completely irrational terror. No — not irrational. There was a _very rational_ reason he felt this way, and Hopeless had told him that often enough. 

It was just — misplaced. No longer necessary. This wasn’t the same as being in a dungeon. Not the same at all.

Jerkily he nodded, and tried to loosen his grip on the back of the chair. His knuckles ached with the force of his grip, but he couldn’t unwind it. “Fine. Okay. Let’s — let’s do this.”

How was it fair that someone who had served Mevolent so well and so faithfully could reap all the benefits of the place built to protect against people like her? It didn’t seem fair.

_Life’s not fair_ , Erskine reminded himself. Life wasn’t fair, and this was what the Tír was for: to protect victims. It was true he’d threatened China. It was true they’d all threatened China. He shouldn’t be surprised she’d take them at their word.

He _should_ trust that Adaeze and Khutulun knew what they were doing. China’s magic interfered with people. They wouldn’t just let her go around without oversight, even if they couldn’t, _wouldn’t_ , discuss it with him.

“We can arrange a meeting-room in the office,” said Adaeze. “Guards on both sides, with stun weapons. We won’t be dismantling her sigils, but from my impression of her, Ms Sorrows wouldn’t be foolish enough to attack you in a civil meeting when her sanctuary would be at risk.”

Erskine exhaled. Yes, that was all true. China was a willing murderer, but she wasn’t stupid. Mostly. He nodded. “She probably wouldn’t.”

He’d be safe. It would be fine. He’d be among friends.

“Are there any messages you’d like to give her when we make your request?” Khutulun asked, taking notes on her tablet. “Given the circumstances we’ll expedite the request to meet, but is there anything that would convince her to agree, and agree expediently?”

Erskine looked out through the window, trying to calm his heart, trying to focus on a mental hum and the comfort of endless possibilities in the clear blue sky. What could convince _China_ that it was her best interests to meet with him?

Right now, just one thing.

“Tell her,” he said, “that if she doesn’t come quickly, Vile is going to make a very swift and immutable return.”


	31. The Death Bringer rises

This, Craven thought, was not quite turning out to be the auspicious day he’d imagined.

For one thing, he was having to _mingle_. With _mortals_. That was already a low point in Craven’s week, month and year; he couldn’t remember the last time he’d had to actually leave the Temple, let alone to … mingle. On the street. In the train.

It was honestly horrible. How they could stand having to squeeze together like this … At least Craven’s retinue was large enough to stop anyone from really getting close, and he ignored the nervous and curious and, in some instances, frankly derogatory, glances thrown their way as they made their way through Dublin.

They’d all learn, Craven promised himself. Very soon, they’d all learn. No one would have to huddle underground for warmth or squeeze into too-tight spaces just to get to where they were going. Soon, the city would be half empty, and people — sorcerers! — would be free to go where they pleased, how they pleased, without having to cower in the dark; they’d be known for being the masters.

He contented himself with that thought, savouring it as he sat beside the Death Bringer, as he walked beside the Death Bringer, and tried to pretend that the Death Bringer wasn’t looking around with a child-like curiosity that was frankly undignified.

Wreath, Craven thought wistfully, would have looked more dignified. Maybe if Craven had threatened some of his supporters Wreath would have been more malleable.

Maybe. They were headed toward the Government Buildings, and Wreath had begun _dialogues_ with the mortal government. Well, Craven would soon fix that.

“What is that?”

The Death Bringer pointed. Craven barely looked.

“That,” he said, “is a church.”

“I know churches.” The Death Bringer’s lip curled and he turned away in a sweep of Wreath’s coat to round the corner. They both seemed to have the overdramatic sweeps down. It had taken Craven years to learn how to get his robe to sweep like that.

“What is that?” This time the Death Bringer pointed to a rather larger building at the end of the street and across the road. Craven had to glance at the board in front before he could answer. Natural History Museum.

“That is the museum.”

“A museum?” the Death Bringer mused. 

“Do you know what a museum is?” Craven asked, as kindly as he could, because he was in public and the Death Bringer was frankly acting like a simpleton, and he was aware of the passersby giving them a wide berth while simultaneously watching them. It would not do to have to deal with the mortal garda.

“I know what a museum is,” said the Death Bringer, sounding annoyed, and he strode toward the doors. Craven ignored the people around them to follow, gritting his teeth and trying not to show it. Apparently, living inside Wreath for so long was a bad influence on the armour.

Craven refused to run, but the Death Bringer kept getting further and further away; in the end he _had_ to hurry his pace, just to keep up, as they passed through the entrance and into the buildings proper.

It was the middle of the day; there were many people around. The moment Craven glanced away to glare at someone who jostled him, he realised he’d lost sight of the Death Bringer and had to find him again.

_There_ he was, looking around at the skeletons and the exhibits.

“Don’t do that,” said Craven, trying to leash his annoyance and not really succeeding. “And stay _close_. If the Sanctuary finds out —”

“The _Sanctuary_ ,” spat the Death Bringer suddenly, rounding on Craven with a rictus of a grin that looked almost more like a snarl, or like it couldn’t decide between them what it would be. “Yes. Draw the Sanctuary’s attention. I’d like to meet foes worthy of me.”

“I can’t do that,” said Craven, his gut fluttering. “They’ll try and stop us —”

“Then you’re of no use to me.”

The Death Bringer turned away again and Craven grit his teeth and ignored the staring passersby to stride forward and grip the Death Bringer’s arm. He was prepared for some kind of retaliation, was ready with his amulet; but instead all the Death Bringer did was look at him, slowly and silently and warning.

Craven let go. “If you draw this much attention it’ll be the cleavers and the garda we see!”

“Let them come,” said the Death Bringer, and moved on. Craven stood awkwardly in the walkway for some moments, then muttered a curse and turned to crane his head for the others — where _were_ they.

They were at least ten feet behind and keeping their distance, that’s where they were. Craven motioned furiously at Quiver, or the tall narrow figure he assumed was Quiver, who didn’t move.

Craven stopped moving too, mostly because the Death Bringer had come up silently, and took his wrist almost delicately. He turned Craven’s hand over, examining it — or Craven assumed he was examining it. It was hard to tell, when his eyes were still completely red, and he’d refused any attempts to hide them or the sigils from casual sight.

The Death Bringer looked at the other necromancers, and smiled. “Were you going to attempt to _restrain_ me? _High Priest_?”

Craven swallowed, and felt sweat trickle down his back. The Death Bringer released his wrist and turned to look up at the mighty skeleton standing before them. Some — giant lizard. Dinosaurs, that was it. Mortals got excited over the silliest things.

“Do you like this?” the Death Bringer asked, and Craven opened his mouth before he realised the Death Bringer asn’t talking to him, but a child leaning against the bannister.

“Oh, yes,” she said enthusiastically. “Look at how long its neck is! If I could ride one, no one could ever get me down and make me go to school!”

“School?”

“School is where children learn things about the world,” said Craven quickly, scanning the area for this girl’s parents. It _was_ a school day, wasn’t it? Why was she here? Why was anyone in this place in the middle of the day, for goodness’s sake, shouldn’t they be slaving their lives away?

“You don’t like school?” asked the Death Bringer.

“Sometimes it’s okay,” said the girl. “Sometimes it’s really boring, and then sometimes we get to come here.”

The Death Bringer was wearing an eerie little smile as he looked down at the girl, and then up at the skeleton. “Would you like to see one alive?”

“Oh, yes,” said the girl, staring up at the Death Bringer. Craven could see doubt on her face, like even she could tell there was something very wrong about the Death Bringer, but he was talking to her, so _clearly_ everything would be fine. Stupid child. “But they’re all dead now. I saw that movie where they were all brought to life, but it was just a movie. What do those pictures on your face mean? Why are your eyes like that?”

The Death Bringer didn’t say anything. He held out his hands, still with that eerie little smile on his face, and Craven reached for shadows, his heart pounding wildly.

“Wait —” he said quickly, because there were procedures to follow, things to be done so only the worthy were chosen for the Passage —

“Shut up,” said the Death Bringer, and Craven felthim reach out.

Craven had once been close to Vile, close enough to feel the use of the death aura. This was different. This wasn’t as though the Death Bringer were reaching out to all the souls in his vicinity; it felt more like he was reaching back, into a horizon that Craven couldn’t see, but which felt — horrifying. Like the deep ocean.

“What are you doing?!” Craven cried out, his heart fluttering in his throat. He meant to spring forward, but his body didn’t seem to want to move, and he gripped his amulet so hard the edges pricked his hand.

“What _are_ you doing?” asked the girl, starting to sound afraid. “What’s wrong with your eyes?”

Shadows around the Death Bringer pulsed, and people were starting to notice. Shouting, screaming — someone rushed at the Death Bringer and without thinking Craven whipped out a shadow to fling the guard away, turning instead outward to the restless passersby. The rest of the clerics were _finally_ moving, coming toward them — but moving slowly enough that it’d probably be too late.

“Stop that,” he hissed behind the Death Bringer’s back. “ _Stop it!_ ”

“Shut up,” said the Death Bringer again, his voice strained but in that oddly wild, victorious voice that only barely resembled Wreath’s to begin with. He clapped his hands and it sounded like a knell, rattling all through the museum. Craven shuddered; everyone shuddered. Even the building shuddered, and for a moment there was silence.

Craven turned, breathing hard and uncertain what he’d see, or why; but there wasn’t anything. Everyone was alive, the girl was picking herself up off the floor, and the crowd was on the edge of unwitting panic, but there was silence, aside from an ominous throb somewhere behind Craven’s ribcage. 

The Death Bringer opened his arms wide, grinning. “Rise.”

The skeleton trembled. Craven’s heart skipped a beat, and he stared with frozen terror as the dinosaur skeleton stirred, shifted. Its long neck swung, and sinew started twining itself through all the bones of its neck, down the plates of its shoulders.

Delicately it stepped off the podium, dripping dust and yanking wired cords.

_Now_ the screaming started, and the Death Bringer laughed with pure, childish delight.


	32. A bad day in Dublin

There were, once more, people in the Taoiseach’s office. Once upon a time, six months ago, Ide would have been by the Taoiseach’s desk, coordinating with him and with the Secretary General, and ensuring the government was running smoothly according to what came out of the Taoiseach’s office.

There were an awful lot of military men over there. Too much testosterone. Ide was torn between wishing she could help balance it out a bit, and being glad she didn’t have to.

Instead she was over here, with the Grand Mage and Rue, and her own little group. They were still in the same room: no one wanted to be too far away. But while the Taoiseach was receiving reports and attempting to contact the President of Ireland and trying to figure out how to shanghai his government into reacting to a magical threat, the Grand Mage was over here quietly giving orders, via Rue, over the phone, and taking some updates.

It was a stark contrast.

“Almost enough to sell me on a monarchy,” Ide muttered, and the Grand Mage gave her a small, tightly amused smile.

“Not that Descry wouldn’t make a great king,” said Rue, “but there _are_ some differences."

“Like what?”

“Like —”

Rue cut off suddenly to lunge toward the Grand Mage and Ide with a thud of his body against theirs, and then they were all on the floor and papers were spilling everywhere, and Ide’s shoulder ached.

Something crashed through the roof in an explosion of sparks and bricks. Ide’s ears rang with people shouting, someone screaming, and the hot whine of something electric cutting out. Or not cutting out.

She lifted her head and flinched as something corded sailed over her, slinging back toward the wall and colliding in a crash of sparks and the alarming smell of something burning.

“Taoiseach,” she gasped, and tried to pull herself away from the — what the _hell_ was that?

Telephone pole. Telephone pole had just _fallen_ on the Taoiseach’s _office_ —

The man in the armour with the horrible serial killer’s mask reached down, and Ide flinched again; but he just picked her up and put her down next to the Grand Mage. The bodyguard reached into the debris to pull Rue out from under it. He was coughing, but as the bodyguard tugged him free he started moving his limbs, bracing himself on the floor and slapping the bodyguard’s hands away.

“I’m good,” he said, his face pale, and Ide glanced wildly around for —

“Secure the Grand Mage,” said the Taoiseach, his voice raised over the hubbub of people trying to hustle him out of the office.

“Sir, we need to get you —”

“The Grand Mage comes with,” said the Taoiseach, and one of the garda came toward them. The bodyguard put a hand on his chest, and Rue got to his feet in a hurry, so Ide did too.

“Stop,” said Rue, sounding shaken. “It’s fine, he’s fine, we’re going with, okay? We’re going with these nice people. Descry?”

The Grand Mage had his head in his hands and his breath was shuddering; but at Rue’s voice he looked up and managed a brief, pained smile, and Rue helped him to his feet.

“Sirs, ma’am,” said the garda. “Please come this way.”

“Where are we going?” Rue asked as they were hustled away from the office. There was — definitely something happening outside. Ide could hear screams. Or maybe that was just in her head.

“They’ll take us to Cathal Brugha Barracks,” she said, trying to pay attention through the ringing in her ears, trying to stick close without stumbling. More garda were coming — at this rate she wouldn’t be _able_ to fall over. “Assuming the route there is clear. What about your — cleavers?”

“They’ll follow,” said Rue, “assuming they see us leave. Descry?”

He craned his head around, even as they were moving, almost running. The Grand Mage was very pale, but he managed to smile, and patted Rue’s shoulder in a way that seemed both dismissive and paternal.

“Liar,” Rue muttered. “What happened? What’s happening?”

The Grand Mage shook his head, and took Ide’s elbow with an apologetic smile. The ground shook and Ide stumbled, almost fell — would have, except that the Grand Mage had one hand on her arm and the other gripping the bannister tightly, and Rue gripped it too, cursing under his breath.

Something shrieked outside, something piercingly inhuman and grating even in the middle of turning sonorous and alien. People screamed down below and in the halls, and the garda started muscling their way through the impending panic. Ide saw the glint of the cleaver’s helmets and coats as they waded in their direction.

“What was that?” she asked, shaken.

“You don’t want to know,” said Rue, as if that question he’d asked had been answered sometime in the last few seconds and Ide had somehow missed it.

“This way,” someone called, and the garda escorted them at a fast pace down the rest of the stairs and toward the door, aided by the fact that the cleavers suddenly had _actual cleavers_ in their hands, and had made space more thoroughly at the base of the stairs than any of the garda had been able to manage.

Ide hoped that didn’t include corpses.

They were hustled out the side door and Ide craned her head, looking for the Taoiseach’s car, looking for — for —

She started to slow, her gaze fixed toward the wall on the far side of the grounds, the one which had split them from the Natural History Museum, and the slowly turning juggernaut of the _dinosaur_ that was currently halfway through it, and crashing into everything in its way.

The Grand Mage’s hand tightened around Ide’s arm and she picked up her pace, but she couldn’t tear her gaze away from that monstrosity.

Its legs were bone, she noticed dazedly. Its legs were bone but there was flesh and sinew crawling all over its skeleton, slowly filling out the hulking curve of its ribs and its shoulders down toward is massive, massive feet stomping toward them.

“Ma’am!”

Someone put a hand on her head to force her to duck as she was pushed into the car, and she could hear a multitude of people screaming, and a multitude more shouting. The door slammed shut and the sounds all dimmed, and the car pulled away in a rev of engine toward the gates and onto the road to follow the Taoiseach’s cavalcade.


	33. Panic

Rover bolted through the doors of St James’ Hospital so fast that he clipped one with his shoulder and went spinning. He picked himself up and sprinted toward the desk.

“Where’s he?!” he shouted at the receptionist, trying _not_ to scream, trying _not_ to be, you know, that person who runs in and assumes everyone just _knows_ what he’s talking about, but also this was Dexter and Dexter was here and Anton had brought Dexter to a _mortal hospital_ so that was _really bad_ —

“Um —” The receptionist blinked and it was _really hard_ not to scream in the face of her utter lack of urgency.

“Rover!” Anton picked him up and pulled him back against his chest, his arm curling around Rover’s to tap his pounding heart. “Breathe,” Anton commanded, and oh, yeah, that ringing in Rover’s ears was definitely the fact that he hadn’t been.

He gulped down air, and Anton tapped his chest twice. “Again.”

Rover whined, but he obeyed. “This’s — getting — tiring —”

“Stop panicking,” said Anton, “and you won’t have to suffer it.”

Rover slumped in his arms, and Anton pulled him away from the desk, glancing at the receptionist. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” said the receptionist automatically, and blinked as Anton steered Rover away. 

It was probably a good thing Anton had a grip on him, because now all of a sudden Rover’s knees didn’t want to hold him. Also his shoulder hurt. Really, a _lot_. 

“What happened?” he asked shakily, and didn’t complain as Anton guided him to one of the chairs. Rover fell bonelessly into it, but gripped Anton’s sleeve until Anton grunted and followed him down, where Rover could actually reach some part of his shoulder to fling his arms around him and bury his face in it.

“Rover —” Anton began, and then sighed, and put his arms around him. Rover felt a brief pang of relief that Anton would actually do these things now, and then guilt that he felt grateful for it when it meant Anton was always on an edge. “He may have had a heart attack.”

He what.

Laughter was a brittle, hysterical thing into Anton’s shoulder. Rover gripped his shirt until the laughter turned to sobs and then sat up so he could, y’know, keep breathing. “He _what_? But he’s not more than — I don’t know, he’s _young_. And healthy as a horse! Have you _seen_ his ass? No, of course not, you don’t look at people’s asses. _It’s a great ass_. It’s the ass of a man who —”

“Rover,” said Anton, and he _sounded_ annoyed, so Rover clamped his mouth shut and rubbed his face with his sleeve.

People were staring. Rover was still in his armour. He’d forgotten. Probably just as well he hadn’t worn the gauntlet.

“It might have been the incident from six months ago,” Anton told him only once he was quiet, though Rover felt like he’d never stop trembling.

He had to laugh again, but this one was short and barked. “The _incident_ —”

Oh, no. Oh no oh no oh no oh no _oh no_ — 

Rover pressed his hand over a sob trying to come out. _Get it together, Larrikin, this is no time to fall apart! Even though it’s exactly the time to fall apart!_

“You think that — it might have damaged his heart?”

“It seems logical,” said Anton tightly, and clasped his hands together. His trembling hands. They’ve been trembling a lot more lately. They always used to, when the gist was close, but Anton got better at hiding it; and now …

Rover reached out to take one of his hands, to massage it around his knuckles and the webs of his fingers. Anton grunted, resisted for just a moment, and then let him have it.

“You’ve been overdoing things, you bad boy,” Rover scolded, but his voice was watery and it didn’t sound right. He tried again. “What do I keep having to tell you about using your hands?”

“Stop,” said Anton tersely, so Rover stopped talking, but he didn’t stop trying to massage the tremble out of Anton’s fingers. Anton leaned back to rest his head against the wall, and took some deep breaths. Rover saw his lips moving.

Maybe he wasn’t the only one who needed to count things out, these days.

Someone’s phone rang. It took a long time for Rover to realise it was one of theirs; the ring-tone wasn’t one that belonged to the Dead Men. He dug around in his pocket for his phone, which was silent, and then dug around in Anton’s pocket for his. Anton grunted.

Rover answered. “Hello?”

Oh, that was not good. He hadn’t even managed innuendo. That was really not good.

“Where have you gone?” said Bliss. Bliss never sounded terse. Anton shouldn’t ever sound terse either.

“Dexter’s in the hospital,” said Rover, as if this should explain everything, and it _should_ — to another Dead Man, it _would_.

“Why?”

“Anton says he had a heart attack.”

Rover’s heart rebounded into his mouth and he felt suddenly violently sick, and his breath came too fast again. Anton took the phone out of his hand and pushed his head down between his knees, and Rover gulped down air until the dizziness started to subside.

“No,” said Anton into the phone, and he sounded — frankly, furious. “There will be no apologies, and we will not return. Detective Digger will be able to assist you with any clean-up, and I imagine those who were imprisoned will be able to answer any questions.”

He hung up, and his hand on the back of Rover’s neck kneaded absently, in that way he’d used to do when Rover was like this. How long ago was that? Two centuries? Three?

Rover couldn’t remember.

The phone rang again. This time it rang _I will survive_.

“Saracen,” said Anton. “Dexter is —”

He cut off suddenly, and even from here Rover could hear Saracen’s voice, sounding jittery and high-strung, the way it did when he’d ‘just known’ something that was pretty frankly _awful_ —

The phones started ringing at the reception desk. The receptionist looked startled, picked one up; but all the others were ringing too, and there was a peal of ambulance alarms, sudden and effusive. One of the other nurses rushed out to pick up one of the other phones, and they kept ringing.

“Hello, this is —”

“How may we assist —”

An alarm started going off. Rover straightened up.

“Is that bad?” he asked Anton with his heart in his throat. “That’s not the fire alarm, is it? It doesn’t sound like a fire alarm.”

“No,” said Anton, his eyes on the door. “It’s not the fire alarm.”

“Do you think we can see Dexter?”

“I think Dexter is about to be the least of the hospital’s worries,” said Anton grimly, and he got to his feet to stride toward the doors leading into the rest of the hospital. Rover scrambled after him.

“Sir, you can’t —” one of the guards began.

“You’re about to be inundated,” said Anton, “with an emergency response from a terrorist attack. The Natural History Museum has casualties. So do the Government Buildings.”

“What —” began the guard, and one of the nurses turned, still on the phone, and wide-eyed.

“How do you —”

“Who is your hospital administrator?” Anton cut in, impatient the way he’s never been impatient before. “I’m on the phone to someone from the Taoiseach’s office.”

“I’ll page her,” said the guard, hurrying toward the desk.

“Do you think we can get in to see Dexter?” Rover whispered, and Anton glanced sideways at him with a definite flicker of his eyes upward. Rover can’t tell tell whether that was him trying to indicate the no-longer-guarded doors, or Anton actually _rolling his eyes_ , in which case, Rover would be very proud of him in a few hours once he knew Dexter was okay.

Rover nodded. “Gotcha.”

Without another word he stole in through the doors, his heart still in his throat.

* * *

Finding Dexter wasn’t easy. For one thing, the entire hospital was just starting to get up in arms, with everyone rushing around everywhere. On the other hand, the good thing about that was that they were too busy to ask why someone in black leather was wandering around. He managed to nab someone who pointed him toward the cardiac unit, and made a bee-line there.

He almost ran into someone rushing _out_ , in fact, someone who looked like a doctor but was moving too fast to catch. Rover brushed past him and went to the nurse at the desk, who looked very frazzled by the alarms that could be distantly heard in the direction of the lobby.

“Dexter Vex?” Rover asked, trying to swallow his heart to put it back where it belonged.

“Down the hall,” said the nurse, pointing and answering the phone at the same time. “Hello, cardiac ward —”

Rover really had to wonder what kind of necromantic terrorist attack had people calling for heart specialists, then decided he didn’t want to know, because he was probably going to find out very, very soon anyway. Instead he made a bee-line for the room, where it was quieter, ish. Too many things were happening to make the hospital really quiet. Even patients in the rooms he passed looked a bit nervous, glancing toward the ceiling as if they could spot the reason for the alarms.

He looked in every door until he found one with a nurse in it, and a tuff of blond hair.

“Dex?” he asked, and really he meant to ask ‘Is this Dexter Vex’s room’, but his throat was really very tight and all that came out was the name, very small and hushed.

The nurse turned, surprised, and frowned. “This is Dexter Vex’s room,” she said, “but I’m sorry, he’s in no condition for visitors right now.”

Rover sidled more into the room. He tried to look at her in the face, really he did; but his gaze just wanted to stay on Dexter, and his face all pale, and his arms limp over the hospital sheets —

Rover’s chest squeezed.

“Please,” he begged. “Something’s happening, or about to happen, and I’m about to get told to go out and try to stop it again, and he’s already been hurt and I don’t know if I’ll see him again for a while and I just need to know he’s going to be okay before I have to go so _please_ —”

He didn’t know what made her face change. Maybe it was his babbling. Maybe it was the dogtags around his neck, clenched in his fist like the grip would help him hold it together.

Either way she glanced between them and then nodded, stepping back. “I’m going to stay here,” she said kindly, “but you can ask me any questions, okay?”

Rover nodded, but he barely looked at her, and didn’t remember crossing the floor to the bed. It was Dex — Dex looking fragile and horrible, and unconscious. But breathing. Breathing was really good. Rover gripped the side of the bed so he didn’t accidentally crush Dexter’s hand, even though he _really_ super wanted to reach out —

Later. Hugs, kisses, and probably sex — later.

“Is — is he —?”

“As far as we can tell he had a myocardial infarction,” she said gently. “That’s a heart attack. He’s very young, but it can sometimes happen if there was a blow or a previous injury, or an undiagnosed heart defect. You’re in the army?”

Rover nodded without looking up. If he stared hard enough, maybe Dexter would wake up, tell him it was going to be okay.

“Well, I assume it wasn’t a heart defect, or it would have been found during his physicals,” said the nurse. “Did he suffer any injuries to his chest recently?”

Rover nodded again, swallowed once or twice. He was holding Dexter’s hand. He didn’t remember doing that. He really didn’t want to crush it, though, so he channelled all his strength to the hand gripping the bar, and kept the other one gentle.

“Can you give me any details?”

“Yeah,” he said, very hoarsely, before realising that, no, he couldn’t, it was _magical_. Rover shook his head. “He — it was a … a choking thing. Something sharp. In his body. In his chest. He coughed it all up …”

It sounded lame and stupid and it was only halfway the truth. Maybe he should have said a bullet, or something, it was more believable … Where did Remnants sit, anyway, when they forced themselves down a host’s gullet? In the chest cavity? Near the heart?

And Rover had made it come out of him, forcibly because it was the only way it was going to happen, and maybe that had damaged Dexter’s _heart_ …

His phone rang . Rover ignored it, to grip Dexter’s hand a little tighter — only a little!

“I think that’s your phone,” said the nurse, very gently.

“Yeah.” His face was wet. Rover didn’t care. “Is he going to be okay?”

“It’s hard to say this early,” said the nurse, “but he’s young and fit, and was brought here right away, so chances are he’ll be fine. He might need to change some things about his lifestyle, but we won’t be able to say how until we can do some more tests and get some more details. Do you have a contact number?”

“Anton Shudder,” said Rover, and his voice was very hoarse. “He — we live with him, he’s the one who called the ambulance, he probably gave his details already.”

“Okay.”

Rover’s phone rang again. This time Rover unpeeled his fingers from around Dexter’s, swallowing hard over and over. It didn’t really dislodge the lump; it just made the tears come faster. He glanced down at the screen. He didn’t recognise the number.

“You can use this phone in the hall?” suggested the nurse, touching his shoulder gently. Rover flinched, but it wasn’t a flinch for being touched. It was a flinch because it was all he could do not to fling himself into her arms. Even he had enough awareness to know not to do that with _total_ strangers _._

She took his arm, gentle but firm, and guided him away from the bed, out of the room and into the hall, where there was a handset on the wall. “Dial 1 for outside connections.”

His hands shook as he punched in the number, and leaned on the wall, tears still flowing freely down his cheeks. They turned his voice raw. “Yeah?”

“You’re answering,” said Valkyrie, sounding surprised. She sounded just as frazzled as Rover felt. “Saracen said to call you, he said something about Dexter, but the cell service is suddenly really bad so I’m using the Hibernian’s landline —”

“He had a heart attack,” said Rover, and his throat closed, and he rubbed his eyes and took some deep breaths. “We think it was — that thing. From six months ago.”

“Oh,” said Valkyrie, and she sounded shaken for a moment before shoring herself up. “Tell me where. I’ll see if Farley can contact the hospital and get Dexter transferred to the Hibernian. In the meantime, everyone’s meant to meet at the Cathal Brugha Barracks.”

“St James’,” said Rover in a small voice. “What’s going on? Anton got a call, but I didn’t hear it.”

“Death has resurrected all the dinosaurs in Dublin,” said Valkyrie, sounding way too cheerful in that way Skulduggery did when Skulduggery was being an arse, and also pretending that things weren’t nearly as bad as they were. “The museums are going nuts, and also the garda, and, like, everyone else. Pretty sure we know why that nuclear explosion’s going to be a thing.”

The nurse made a noise and Rover belatedly realised she was still standing there, _listening_. He thudded his head against the wall, exhaled something that might be a laugh, came out more like a sob.

“Okay. Dex is — okay. For now. I’ll … I’ll go back downstairs, Anton and I will be there as soon as we can. Val?”

“Yeah?”

Rover’s throat tightened. “Stay safe,” he ordered croakily. “Stay really safe.”

“You too,” said Valkyrie quietly, and hung up; and Rover did too, scrubbing at his face as he turned toward the nurse.

“I need to get back down to the lobby,” he said, “as fast as possible.”


	34. Valkyrie and Farley

“Crap,” Valkyrie muttered, gazing through all the traffic. There were roadblocks everywhere — the garda had moved fast. The problem was that they were stuck in it. That might have been boring, except that every so often there was an ear-splitting shriek of some vital infrastructure or another breaking, and people screaming. When Valkyrie craned her head to look over the street and sky-line, she could occasionally see something long and tall swaying in the distance.

A helicopter shot overhead. She wondered how well that was going.

“We’re not going to make it to the hospital like this,” said Farley grimly.

“ _You’re_ not going to make it to the hospital like this,” Valkyrie corrected, and glanced over her shoulder into the back of Farley’s van. Skulduggery was arguing with himself — or with Wreath, actually, that made more sense. Something about a spool of everlasting thread, and some trick Skulduggery had played. Skulduggery didn’t seem to think it was likely, but from the snatches Valkyrie had heard, it sounded pretty damned like him to her.

“And you can’t walk around outside with him,” said Farley, following her gaze back.

“I could if he still had his hat and sunglasses.” Unfortunately, they were back at the Hibernian, sitting in Skulduggery’s Bentley. He’d refused to let Farley drive it, but he wasn’t in a condition to drive anywhere himself.

It left them all feeling a little terse, aside from everything else.

In the distance something called, something animal and inhuman and so deeply sonorous it made Valkyrie shudder. It sort-of sounded like the movie — and didn’t, at once.

“Maybe they’ll help.” Farley nodded through the windscreen toward a pair in garda uniforms, and Valkyrie twisted in her seat to open the window toward the back.

“Hey,” she shouted over the sound of Skulduggery arguing with himself, and the skeleton looked up attentively. She paused. She had really no idea who was in control, there. “I need Skulduggery’s badge,” she said. “Now.”

“Ah.” Skulduggery held up a finger and dug into his pocket, and he knew exactly where it was so probably it _was_ Skulduggery in control, for now. Wreath didn’t seem to be able to stop himself from interjecting, but Skulduggery could sort-of make himself quiet, if he tried. There was some kind of pull happening in there, and it sounded like a fight for Wreath just to _keep_ himself there. “Here you go. May I ask to whom you’re showing _my_ badge?”

“Couple of garda,” said Valkyrie, grabbing the badge and shoving the door open so she could slide out onto the pavement. She slammed it shut and Farley crept forward a little to stay in the lane and keep the line moving.

“Hey!” Valkyrie waved at the garda, and thankfully they both looked at her. Just very, very distractedly. And looking very, very pale.

“I’m sorry, miss, please get back in your car,” said one of them. “We can’t open the roadblock —”

“No, listen,” said Valkyrie, shoving the badge at them. “Detective Inspector Me is in that van.” She pointed. “He’s injured and we need to get through the roadblock to the barracks right now. We’ve been asked to go there.”

They looked at her, and down at the badge, and at her again, and then each other; and Valkyrie knew they were seeing someone who looked too young to be strictly anywhere near the barracks, even as a green recruit. She couldn’t bluff her way through this one; not when her only real option was to try to be one of them, and that was just stupid.

She didn’t need to bluff. She reached for her phone and dialled Saracen, and prayed that it would work this close to the barracks. “I’m calling someone with the Taoiseach, right now,” she told them, and then, _relievingly_ _,_ the phone picked up. “Saracen —”

“Sure can,” said Saracen, sounding a little manic, and then his voice went distant, cutting through the din of tense voices behind him. “Fionn, Valkyrie needs your help. Seems they’re stuck behind a barricade and can’t get through without someone with authority.”

“Well, I have that in spades,” said the Taoiseach, and the garda looked at each other, this time with wider eyes. “To whom am I speaking?”

One of the garda cleared her throat. “Martha Rogers, sir.”

“Please let Valkyrie Cain through,” said the Taoiseach, sounding very calm and reasonable and only a little terse. “And the detective she’s got with her. Has he got a badge?” His voice went distant. “ _Has_ he got a — he does? Great. Valkyrie, please show them the detective’s badge.”

“I am,” said Valkyrie cheerfully.

“Oh, good. Thank you.”

The phone went dead and Valkyrie’s stomach dropped. She hoped that was just them hanging up abruptly.

The garda looked at each other once more, then handed Skulduggery’s hand into Valkyrie’s waiting hand. “You’ll need to come up onto the pavement,” Rogers told her, “but we’ll make space for you to get through, and radio ahead to let them know. What’s the licence plate?”

Valkyrie gave them the number and jogged back to Farley, who reached over to open the door before she got there.

“Well?” he demanded.

“We’re in,” said Valkyrie, buckling herself in. “Get up on the pavement, we’ll go around this mess. They’ll let us through.”

Farley put down the brake and revved the engine, turning the wheel to edge past the car in front and scootch onto the sidewalk with a thud and a jolt. “They let you through based on Skulduggery’s badge?”

“No, I called Saracen and asked him to ask the Taoiseach,” said Valkyrie. The look he gave her was surprised and something else, and unexpectedly made her chest flutter. Had she noticed he was pretty good-looking before? Mostly all she remembered was the acne. When had that gone away?

“That’s awesome,” he said.

She grinned back, and knew it was tight, but also knew it was real. “It _was_ pretty awesome.”

“And I’m stuck in the support lineup,” Farley muttered.

“You _wanted_ to be there.”

“Yeah, but sometimes I kind of wish I could be on the front-line,” said Farley, and the car in front scootched forward, and they were finally able to pull onto the sidewalk proper. They followed the garda’s directions past the garda cars that were blocking the traffic, to the hooting horns of all the people in the lane who thought they should get right of way.

“It’s not as exciting as it seems,” said Valkyrie. 

With a crunch of suspension and tyres they came off the sidewalk, where the road was clear and free. Valkyrie rolled down the window.

“Thanks,” she called, waving at Rogers, and then Farley put his foot on the accelerator and they went roaring down the not-totally-empty lanes lanes of traffic across the bridge and toward the Cathal Brugha Barracks.

They didn’t usually make a cordon this large — but there wasn’t usually two terrorist attacks in the centre of Dublin inside of a year, either. They’d learned from the Remnants, and now anywhere the Taoiseach was a no-go zone unless authorised. Most of the traffic alongside them now was military.

“Isn’t it?” Farley asked over the sound of the wind through Valkyrie’s window, as she hurriedly rolled it back up.

“Isn’t it what?”

“As exciting as it seems.”

Valkyrie thought about that for a minute. “Okay, yeah,” she admitted. “It kind of is. But it’s also painful and dangerous, and to tell you the truth it makes me feel better knowing you’re at the Hibernian in case anything happens. Kenspeckle is great, but he needs to work on his bedside manner.”

Farley looked surprised again, and pleased this time, smiling. “And I don’t?”

“ _You_ I know I’m allowed to punch if you get to be too much of an asshole,” said Valkyrie, and grinned back.

There were other cars ahead pulled to a stop, more garda cars, but no one intervened with the van’s path almost up to the barracks gates. By that point they had to slow down anyway — there were just too many people, too many trucks and military-looking vehicles, and a handful of inventive or lucky reporters, and bystanders being nudged away from the block.

“This is probably about as far as I can get,” said Farley, pulling to a stop before he ran over a man in a military uniform with his hand out, in front of a barricade.

“You need to check the hospital, anyway.” Valkyrie unbuckled. “Hopefully the traffic won’t be bad between there and the Hibernian.”

“Don’t jinx it,” Farley warned as he rolled down his window, and Valkyrie hopped out and slammed the door shut, and went around the back to pull open the doors. Skulduggery’s head jerked up as they opened.

“Ah, Valkyrie,” he said, sounding very distracted. “Are we there yet?”

Valkyrie couldn’t help but laugh, and it didn’t even sound hysterical. Mostly. “Yeah, we’re there. There’s a lot of military types around, so are you ready to be a Halloween costume?”

“Oh, no,” said Skulduggery. “I’m not doing that again. Last time, Rover left candle wax in my skull.”

He heaved himself up and out of the back of the van, his bones rattling the way they didn’t, the way they _shouldn’t_ , except right now they were — as if his control over his skeleton was less than it was. Someone made a strangled noise off to the side. Valkyrie ignored it, taking Skulduggery’s hand to lead him around the driver’s side of the van, where Farley was arguing with the military guy.

“— and I’m telling _you_ , young man, if you don’t leave immediately I’ll have you arrested for —” 

The military man turned, saw Skulduggery, and went very quiet.

“There you go,” said Farley. “ _Not_ a prank. Now if you excuse me, I’ve got someone to pick up.” He looked at Valkyrie. “If I can’t make it back to the Hibernian, I’ll stick around St James’s. They can probably use a specialist there anyway.”

“Thinking a bit much of yourself, aren’t you,” Valkyrie shot back.

“Hey, if they’ve got anyone else there who knows magic _and_ first-aid, I’ll eat Skulduggery’s hat.”

“You will not,” Skulduggery objected, and Farley grinned and pulled back into the van to reverse out. The military man kept staring, wide-eyed, as Valkyrie led Skulduggery around the barricade. She really hoped there was going to be someone who could give them directions at the barracks proper and not just stare.

Turned out, there were a lot of barricades, and a lot of people to stare. Valkyrie was almost relieved when they heard the sound of an argument — and it sounded a lot like the argument Farley had just been having.

“He’s not picking up! I’m _telling_ you —”

“That’s Rover,” Skulduggery observed.

“He sounds a little —” Valkyrie fished around for a word that wasn’t ‘hysterical’ and gave up with a shrug, taking Skulduggery around the side of the barracks wall in the direction of Rover’s voice.

When they get there he and Anton, and Anton’s van, had been pulled aside just in front of an imposing gate. The doors were open, the military types were rifling through it, and Anton was standing a distance away, taking deep calming breaths and with his fists clenched while he looked up at the sky.

There were weapons. It really didn’t look good. Especially with Rover gesticulating in one of the guard’s faces.

“Hey,” said Valkyrie, and everyone turned, and Rover’s face collapsed from hysterical determination to something so deeply relieved that it was uncomfortable to watch.

“Val! Can you get through to Saracen? Or Hopeless? These idiots don’t believe us when we say we were summoned by the Taoiseach, and one of them touched Anton and Anton almost punched him and things are looking pretty dire and —”

“Breathe,” chorused Valkyrie, Anton and Skulduggery, and Rover cut himself off with a breath.

The guards were staring. Probably not at her, almost definitely at Skulduggery, but it made Valkyrie feel self-conscious as she waved. “Hey. It’s true. Taoiseach’s office called, sort-of.” Did it count as an office when they weren’t in his office? “Lemme see if I can get through.”

“If he isn’t answering us,” said Anton very tersely, “he won’t pick up for you.”

Terse was too light a word, Valkyrie decided. She called anyway, but as promised, no one picked up, and the robot woman started the song and dance about being out of network range before Valkyrie turned it off and looked up.

“They’re busy,” she said, perhaps obviously, and held out Skulduggery’s badge. “Look, this is Detective Inspector Me. Martha Rogers should have called ahead, we’ve already gone through this whole rigamarole.”

“That’s a skeleton,” said the guard, a little faintly.

“Well done,” said Skulduggery. “Very astute. Capital training, right there.”

… It might have been Wreath. Valkyrie squeezed their hand until the bones ground together. The guard continued to stare, and some of those around them _started_ to.

“It talks.”

“Yes,” said Valkyrie patiently. “He’s a talking skeleton. I’d say he’s alive, but he’s not, it’s just that he can move around and think under his own power. Can Rover and Anton come in now? It’s important.”

“Sure,” said the guard, looking very dazed and ill, and in a moment Rover had slipped between two soldiers and Anton had brushed past them to head toward the opening gates. Anton looked tenser than Ghastly did when someone asked him to tailor some jeans.

“Thank you,” he said, in a very controlled way that meant he was probably trying, very hard, to continue being polite.

“No problem,” said Valkyrie. Something roared, very loudly, somewhere in the distance, and Valkyrie jumped. All of them jumped, except Skulduggery — even people rushing past. Wordlessly Valkyrie Did Not Look, and instead tugged Skulduggery toward the nearest building with a lot of important people rushing in and out. The guards at the door took one look at Skulduggery and hastily made way. One saluted so hard it must have hurt.

“Detective,” she said in a strangled tone.

“Ah,” said Skulduggery. “I’m infamous. Lovely.”

“Shut up,” said Rover. “We can’t all be infamous. We can’t _all_ be walking skeletons.”

He kept rushing ahead and doubling back, his hands moving with nervous tension like a dog with a jangling leg. Anton clamped a hand to his shoulder and it made him stop, at least for now, but his legs kept twitching and his hands kept moving.

Valkyrie’s stomach plummeted. “You said Dexter was going to be okay.”

“Something happened to Dexter?” Skulduggery asked sharply.

“Heart attack,” said Anton shortly.

“ _Dexter_?”

“The nurse said he’d probably be fine,” Rover babbled. “Some tests, some lifestyle changes, you know the whole bit, they don’t want to give you false hope, but she _said_ he’d be fine and maybe he’ll be better than fine when Grouse gets his hands on him —”

“ _Breathe_ ,” said Anton sharply, and then they were coming up the stairs to the building and someone was coming down them in a rush, someone who looked vaguely familiar and very incredibly ruffled, but still managed to keep on her high heels and move with purpose.

She took one look at them and turned around. “This way.”

“Yay, a welcoming party,” said Valkyrie with inappropriate enthusiasm, and the woman shot her a look over her shoulder. It looked half amused and half not, and the ‘not’ was a combination of frazzle and terror and pure adult disdain for immaturity. She had a face Valkyrie was pretty sure she should recognise.

“I’m in the business a lot these days,” she said, her heels clicking on the floor as she took them past the groups of people being vetted for entrance, being stopped from entering, and generally having it explained to them that the Taoiseach was having an emergency and couldn’t attend to international matters at this time, and they’d appreciate if anything they saw was kept _national_.

“Minister Kavanagh, so lovely to see you again,” said Skulduggery cheerfully, and the name clicked in Valkyrie’s head. Right. She’d heard about the Taoiseach assigning one of his senior ministers to liaise with the ‘faeries’, and she also kind of remembered the name from school or her parents.

Kavanagh shot another look over her shoulder. “And you, I suppose,” she said cautiously, like she was expecting Skulduggery to pull something out of his sleeve. “To whom am I speaking?”

“Sharp,” muttered Skulduggery approvingly, and then his skull nodded of its own accord.

“Told you.”

“I don’t need your opinion on these matters, Wreath.”

Rover burst into inappropriate giggles, but since they were definitely hysterical no one was going to blame him much. Minister Kavanagh managed to drag her gaze away to focus on the stairs and on shouldering past the people rushing back and forth. Most of them were in uniform, and most of them gave way when they saw her, before they even saw Skulduggery.

“That’s ominous,” said Anton grimly.

“They’ve been like this all hour,” said Valkyrie long-sufferingly. “At first it’s kind of funny, and now it’s just _annoying_. D’you know how many of the same mannerisms they have? _Lots_. I can never tell who’s talking.”

“They’ve known each other for a long time,” said Anton, “or so Wreath said, and Ghastly confirmed it.”

“That’s what Wreath claims,” said Skulduggery, “but for all I know he cast a spell on Ghastly to make him _think_ that. I wouldn’t put it past these zealot types.”

“Skulduggery,” said Skulduggery, “shut up.”

Valkyrie was pretty sure she heard Kavanagh swallow a nervous laugh, and if that was the best reaction she had, she was doing pretty well. She took them through the halls, pushing past people until they just looked at them and gave way, and finally came to an intersection where Bev was talking low with someone wearing a lot of medals and a military uniform.

Kavanagh pointed to the open doorway across the hall. “In there.”

“You’re not coming with?” Skulduggery asked, and Kavanagh shook her head.

“I need to go wrangle some people and help the squad from the Tír wrangle some others. Also possibly chase down some whiskey, if I can find it, because I’m going to need it before the day is done. At the very least if one of those _things_ comes near me I can grab a lighter and use it as a Molotov cocktail.” She seemed to realise she was babbling and took a deep breath, and nodded toward them. “Good luck.”

“Thanks,” said Valkyrie, and took a deep breath of her own, and marched across the room toward the Taoiseach’s temporary office.

* * *

The room resembled the war-zone that Dublin was outside. Whatever Hopeless and Saracen had gone to the Government Buildings for to begin with, now suddenly there were a lot more people involved, and many of them were wearing uniforms and medals and looking very, very impressive. Valkyrie ignored the flutter in her gut, the flutter in her chest, and guided Skulduggery around the melee of people.

He hadn’t objected to her having his hand yet. She wasn’t sure if that was because he thought it was helping her, or he actually needed the help himself, and that was a scary thought.

There was a wide round desk set up near the middle, and another several strewn throughout the room with maps and papers and computers everywhere. The biggest map was on the biggest desk, and the biggest authorities were there, including the biggest medals, probably the Taoiseach — and definitely Saracen and Hopeless, which mean Valkyrie definitely had to go over there. The latter looked very narrow and dainty, seated in a chair like an oasis of calm, except for how his eyes were strained.

Valkyrie really hoped he was okay with all the noise.

Valkyrie _really_ hoped he was okay with Tesseract looking over him from behind. The sight of him sent a shiver down Valkyrie’s spine. He was worse than the cleavers.

“We’re here,” she called, trying to be heard over the hubbub, and regretted it when it made a half-dozen very important people look up and see her, and see how young she was. Stubbornly she lifted her chin, and dragged Skulduggery toward the desk.

“Ah,” said Skulduggery. “The spotlight. Lovely.”

“How are you feeling?” Saracen demanded, and then added quickly, “That’s Hopeless asking, not me, _I_ know that you have a heart of stone. Or would, if you had a heart.”

“Slander,” Rover said accusingly. “Everyone knows Skulduggery has a heart of wax. That’s why it keeps getting in his skull.”

“Says you —”

Hopeless clapped and they both went quiet, and Anton sighed and pushed Rover ahead of him, and muscled through some of the people who didn’t get out of the way fast enough. Valkyrie pushed Skulduggery closer, and down into one of the unused chairs, where he looked very thin. The way he sat, the way his wrists flopped limply on the arms, was alarming.

“To answer your question,” said Skulduggery conversationally, “I’m about as well as I can be with someone else sharing my skeleton. It seems Wreath still has a connection to his body, so he has to fight to stay here and keeps rudely interrupting me.”

“They’ve been doing a double act for the last hour,” said Valkyrie, and Hopeless smiled at her, small and encouraging. She didn’t know how much effort it took him, but it made her feel a lot better.

‘Report,’ he signed, and Valkyrie took a deep breath, re-centred her feet, put her hands behind her back, and closed her eyes.

“Roughly an hour ago we were at the Hibernian consulting Pandora regarding Gail’s cure. Skulduggery was asking some questions about how her equipment worked when, very abruptly, he collapsed without losing consciousness and Wreath began speaking through his skeleton. While Skulduggery appears to have dominant control, Wreath seems to have to take over every so often or he’ll, I don’t know, die or something.”

“Succinct,” said Skulduggery dryly in the tone Valkyrie was just beginning to recognise as Wreath’s.

“Farley brought us here as soon as we could,” said Valkyrie, and Hopeless tapped the desk. Valkyrie opened her eyes to see him signing.

‘What did Kenspeckle and Pandora have to say?’

“Pandora used the orb on Skulduggery,” said Valkyrie. “She says his name and magic are still intact. Wreath’s soul also appears to be intact, but there is a very definite reverberation. She _might_ be able to set things up to track Death using Wreath’s connection to him, but that’ll take time, equipment, probably public infrastructure, and it probably isn’t going to be that hard to find Death anyway, let’s be honest.”

“Who _is_ this little girl?” asked one of the men in the suits around the desk, one with the salt-and-pepper hair. Valkyrie didn’t know whether his tone was wondering or disdainful, but she smiled brightly at him either way.

“I’m a Dead Man’s apprentice.”

Let them chew on _that_ for a while. Saracen laughed. Rover grinned, fierce and dangerous and Anton-like, and Anton crossed his arms and glowered at the man in question, who looked a little surprised, as if he wasn’t expecting an actual answer.

“What does this mean in real terms?” asked one of the other men in suits, a much younger one whose face was also familiar, whose voice was _very_ familiar, and it took Valkyrie a solid few seconds to realise that that was the Taoiseach.

Hopeless spoke; Saracen translated. “It means that we can measure the damage Death is doing to Wreath and to Skulduggery, and informs our method of stopping him.”

“Can’t we just shoot him?” someone asked, and Skulduggery’s head snapped around.

“Please don’t,” he said — _they_ said, because for a moment there were two voices in one, identical on the surface but different in intonation, and Valkyrie stared. Skulduggery shook his head violently, and then nodded. “Ah, yes. That’s something we’re never doing again. If I had vocal chords, I’d be rubbing them.”

More people stared. Valkyrie swallowed the urge to grin.

“If we shoot Death, all it’ll do is kill Wreath,” said Saracen, and Hopeless nodded. “Death isn’t a physical being — he’s a magical one, trapped inside Wreath’s body. He could just as easily reanimate Wreath’s body for his own purposes and carry on, whereas if we can break his grip on Wreath’s body, Wreath might be able to take it back and imprison him again.”

“I see,” Skulduggery muttered. “All I am is a glorified jailor. This is your fault, Pleasant.”

Skulduggery’s head jerked a bit, but he didn’t respond. He never had, whenever Wreath said anything like that.

“So we’re going to try to contain the five-year-old with the sharpie,” said the Taoiseach, and Valkyrie felt glad when Skulduggery laughed, because it meant she didn’t have to pretend she wasn’t — though at least she coughed to try and cover it.

“What if we can’t?” demanded the man in the suit with the salt-and-pepper hair, the one who didn’t think teenagers were worth much of anything. Valkyrie was pretty sure she should know his face too, but he was an idiot, so she didn’t much care. “Is there anything that can kill it?”

“We haven’t found anything yet,” said Anton quietly, all full of ominousness and enough to make the military types shiver, “and we’ve been dealing with this monster for the last three centuries.”

At least a few people blanched. Valkyrie couldn’t blame them for that, but also she hoped it meant they wouldn’t get in their way.

“If we fail to stop Death,” said Saracen, “someone is going to drop a nuclear warhead on Dublin, and speaking for myself, at that point I’m not sure I could blame them for it.”

“How could you _possibly_ know that?”

“One of our Sensitives was having a vision,” said Erskine, raspy with static, and Valkyrie jumped a little, and looked around before finding Hopeless’s phone face-up on the desk. “Sorry, one of the Tír’s Sensitives. He had visions of possible apocalypses. Unlike most other Sensitives, his visions weren’t guaranteed, so the fact he was seeing this over anything else tells us it’s imminent.”

“If we fail,” said Anton, “all of Dublin will be destroyed.”

Saracen smiled at him brittlely. “Pretty much. Remind you of anything?”

“Reminds me of the war.”

“Yep.” Saracen nodded. “Me too. Glad we could agree on that one.”

“I don’t want to go to war again,” Rover muttered. “War _sucks_. War sucks especially when the other side has superheroes and we don’t.”

Valkyrie laughed. “You guys don’t count as superheroes?”

“Anton _is_ always angry,” said Erskine, sounding amused, and Anton grunted while several of the people closest to him gave him speculative-startled looks and edged away. “Governor?”

“I’m here,” said the governor of the Tír. “I was consulting with Khutulun. Grand Mage, Taoiseach, I believe we can, at short notice, summon at least a dozen sigil-masons to send to Dublin.”

“What good will that do?” demanded the man with the suit and the salt-and-pepper hair.

“What does that _mean_?” asked one of the men with the medals and the general’s marks. He looked pretty frazzled. Valkyrie looked around. A _lot_ of people in here looked _very_ frazzled.

“Sigil masons are specialists in magical language,” said Erskine. “They use magical symbols to create objects of power.”

“Death was bound in Wreath’s body with sigils,” said Anton. “I wish I could get a better look at them.”

“If you had, we wouldn’t have to be asking for help from someone else,” Saracen muttered, and Anton stiffened. Hopeless brought his hand down on the desk again, sharply enough to make half a dozen people jump, and signed quickly.

“The sigil masons can help create a binding in the city that will contain Death,” Saracen said. “They’re our best weapon. If we can get Death inside a containment zone — and based on the flyovers you’ve been doing he doesn’t seem interested in moving far — we’ll be able to suppress his influence and Wreath can take back his body. Then we’ll be able to see whatever the high priest did to the bindings directly on Wreath’s body, and go from there.”

“What kind of containment zone?” asked the general, sounding much more assured. Probably military types knew all about that kind of thing.

Valkyrie let them discuss it, and quietly scooted into the chair next to Skulduggery. His head jerked sideways.

“Excuse me,” he said, “that is inappropriate workplace behaviour, Valkyrie Cain.”

Despite herself, despite everything, Valkyrie laughed. “Since when have you cared about inappropriate workplace behaviour?”

“Since someone who claims to have known me is now very, very close,” said Skulduggery. “Also, since he’s listening in on everything we say, though I suppose that _isn’t_ his fault. Are you alright, Valkyrie?”

That last was softer, and more gentle, in ways Skulduggery only ever got when he as genuinely trying and genuinely worried, and all at once Valkyrie felt a lump in her throat and her eyes burning with tears.

“Not really,” she said, trying for something nonchalant, and instead getting something husky. “You?”

“Been better,” Skulduggery admitted, and shifted a little so his pelvis wasn’t sticking into her side quite as much. “But then, I’ve been worse. And I’ve known for a very long time that anything of this sort would be my fault. It’s still odd, though.”

“Why?”

Skulduggery’s skull straightened, centring out toward the desk where there was something resembling an argument happening, but one in which Hopeless wasn’t interfering, so it probably wasn’t all that bad.

“Because all these people are here trying to help,” he said simply. 

“Goon,” said Valkyrie, and elbowed him in the rib-cage. “That’s what people do when they know you need it.”

“True,” said Skulduggery, sounding slow and thoughtful, his eye-sockets still directed at the discussion happening at the table — and there was something almost happy in his tone, or at least something warm. “Somehow, it’s a lesson I didn’t think I’d learn.”


	35. China's not-so-secret

As promised, Adaeze ordered one of the governmental meeting rooms arranged for their use, and let Erskine look it over before anyone had arrived — before China had actually responded. Like many of the rooms this high in the tower, it had floor-length windows looking out over the city and the sea beyond, and in this case looked more like a prison than an escape. If Erskine didn’t have magic, it wasn’t like he’d be able to get down from there.

But he won’t need magic, he told himself firmly, because he was among _friends_. Friends who weren’t out to hurt him. Friends who would do everything to make sure he’d be okay.

“Erskine?”

His fists were clenched. Erskine took a deep breath and let it out slowly, counting to ten and making every muscle in him relax. Including his hands. _Especially_ his hands. Then he turned, and tried to smile at Adaeze, and knew it was brittle.

“Ever had the feeling of being between a rock and a hard place?”

“Yes,” she said, “but not, I think, the same ones as yours.” She put a hand gently on his arm and Erskine managed not to flinch. “Which side of the table would you rather?”

He swallowed hard and glanced at it. Neither side had their back to either door or wall. The Tír knew how to be diplomatic better than that. But because of the shape of the room one side was going to be closer to the door than the other. If anything happened he’d need to get past China and whoever she brought with her, as well as the guards —

No. Stop it. He won’t have to escape from anywhere. There’s nowhere to escape from. He shook his head a little. If he took the door, he’d have his back to it when China entered, anyway. If that happened, he’d flinch. He knew he would. And that would tell China she had an upper hand. She already knew she had an upper hand — but she wouldn’t know what his state was, and the fact she was afraid of him was the only leverage he had. That, and Hopeless.

“This side,” he said, and Adaeze nodded.

“Please take a seat, Mr Ravel,” she said more formally, and Erskine let her guide him toward the chair. Khutulun was already at the table, sitting with her back to the wall; Adaeze would take the side of the window. Mediators, allies, representatives of the sanctuary China asked for. Probably a good thing.

Someone fell in behind Erskine. His back itched. And it would undermine his position, to look like he needed to be guarded so closely. “Can we have the guards against the wall?”

“That should be adequate,” said Khutulun, and motioned everyone to move their positions. That was better; it looked more like an escort than an armed guard, and now there was no one behind Erskine to make him jump.

He sat, and wordlessly put his hands on the table, and clasped them so they didn’t shake. He’d been hoping for a circle of sigils — but of course that wasn’t going to be good enough. A circle of sigils could be broken out of, or someone else pushed in; and restraining him directly would undermine his position just as much as someone hovering behind him.

Instead one of the attendants, someone with medical training, carefully measured a dose of repressant into a glass of water, and set it in front of him. Before he could think twice, or talk himself out of anything, Erskine took it and drained it, and set the glass down carefully again.

It didn’t feel like much of anything, was the worst thing. Like taking a pill, or drinking icy water and feeling it go down; but afterward, nothing. He hadn’t meant to try and test it, to reach for air just in case — but he couldn’t help the flick of his fingers and couldn’t stop the nauseating roll of his gut when the glass didn’t move. Didn’t even tremble.

“Erskine?” Erskine swallowed down bile and tried to smile at Adaeze. Her brow knitted together. “Perhaps I should make the offer on your behalf.”

“I don’t look that bad, do I?” Erskined asked, and tried to make a joke of it. It didn’t even rise high enough to fall flat; instead he just sounded tremulous, which was even worse.

“Yes,” said Khutulun bluntly, leafing through her papers. “Take some deep breaths. Drink some more water. Eat some fruit.”

The assistant _had_ left fruit. The thought of eating it made the nausea worse, but he wasn’t stupid. He took a banana, a green stubby thing that was more a pod than anything else, and got up to wander around the room again. 

This time, he didn’t let himself stop at the window. This time, he really did just wander, looking at the pictures on the walls and the other desks neatly pushed to the side, and pretended he was just fine. The banana didn’t come back up, and he felt marginally better afterwards.

_See, Ravel? Perfectly fine. No one trying to kill you, or torture you._

His heart was still pounding and he still felt like a shattered nerve — but everything about this room was different to the dungeon, and it helped. Just enough.

When Erskine turned, he caught Alice’s gaze on him; but it drifted away as if she hadn’t been watching, and he remembered only two days ago, he’d told her about that dungeon. He didn’t even have space to hope she wasn’t thinking badly of him.

Especially since there was a knock on the door just then, and Erskine’s heart surged to his throat. Casually, oh so casually, he wandered back to the table to set the banana peel on the edge and pick up another piece of — something not remotely analogous to a modern fruit.

“Enter,” said Adaeze, straightening up and folding her hands serenely.

The door opened, and China Sorrows swept in, and Erskine’s terror swept away on pure adrenaline, on readiness, and on the instinct to smile bracingly against the scent of her perfume and the length of her legs under the part in her skirt.

“China, so lovely to see you,” he said with cutting cheer, and knew in some detached part of his mind that he was going to regret this, later — but only much, much later, when he had the time to fall apart. It had been a while since he’d compartmentalised like this … or maybe it’d been no time at all. He couldn’t remember.

China paused, and raised one elegant eyebrow, and it was very easy to ignore the small whisper of _love me_ , as easy as it had ever been. China Sorrows was not Mevolent. China Sorrows was surmountable. Some part of him still remembered that, and if she made one move to make that whisper more than subtext —

That was what the guards were for.

They were here for him, as much as for her. They were.

“Erskine, dear, I do wish I could say the same. It was my understanding that restraints were to be in order?”

“Mr Ravel acqueisced to having his magic bound,” said Khutulun, and laid the consent form Erskine had signed earlier on China’s side of the table. “A dozen witnesses observed him do so.”

“It’s true,” said Erskine, and couldn’t have wiped the smile off his face if he’d tried. “I’m completely and utterly at your mercy.”

China paused in the process of reading the form, and gazed at him with an impassive expression which gave the impression she was, very quickly, recalculating just how desperate he must be, and therefore how unpredictably lethal he _would_ be, if pushed.

Then she smiled, charming enough to make someone’s breath audibly catch. “Erskine,” she said, “I rather think I’d be much safer if you _weren’t_.” But she sat at the table, all elegance and grace, and after a moment Erskine followed. He’d much rather be standing. It would have been taken as entirely too intimidating. “Your message said something about Vile, I believe …?”

“That’s right,” said Erskine, still smiling. It didn’t feel like it totally fit his face. “The High Priest of the Necromancer’s Temple has fiddled with Wreath’s wards to release Death into his body.”

“How … ambitious of him,” said China slowly, without moving her gaze from his face. “And Wreath?”

“He’s borrowing Skulduggery’s body,” said Erskine, and his heart was pounding again, but for a different reason, this time. Hopeless had, essentially, given Erskine permission to tell a secret none of them dared talk about, _if_ he had to. Skulduggery as Vile — even fewer people knew about that than they did about Hopeless, and there was something excruciatingly unfair or ironic about that, but Erskine didn’t know what.

He didn’t much want Khutulun and Adaeze to know, but given the circumstance there may not be a whole lot of choice. Neither of them knew Irish; that might have to be the best he could do. If China asked. _If_. And if she didn’t accept Erskine side-stepping around it.

If.

He wished Hopeless were here.

China laughed instead, a genuinely delighted peal that made something in Erskine fall to its knees — but that part of him was very small. “I have to admit, I _would_ like to see that. They must get on splendidly.”

“Like cats and dogs in the same body, or so I hear,” said Erskine dryly.

“And however did that eventuality come to pass?”

Erskine shrugged, a little impatiently, and rolled his fruit betwee his hands. “Who can tell? Skulduggery’s a skeleton, Wreath’s a necromancer. They have a history, apparently. They hate each other.”

“And so Wreath turns to Skulduggery as his last recourse?” China’s eyebrow lifts again. “That seems rather … unlikely.”

“If you’ve met Wreath,” said Erskine, “you might not find it all that unlikely.”

China smiled, and it was unexpectedly cutting. “I have, in fact, met Wreath,” she said. “Unfortunately, he is the sort of man who depends on the unlikely, which means that, in this case, it’s _extremely_ likely.”

“That’s a story I wouldn’t mind hearing,” said Erskine.

“And you shall never hear it,” China answered.

Which meant that Wreath had got one up on China Sorrows, and now Erskine _really_ wanted to know what it was. Erskine laughed and it was unforced, but it felt distant enough that he felt like a puppet whose strings someone else was pulling. “I’ll ask Descry later.”

Her mouth thinned minisculely, and then she smiled more brightly still to cover it. It was a smooth sequence. If Erskine didn’t know her, if he hadn’t been looking, he would have missed it. He might have missed it anyway, if his entire being weren’t on such high alert.

“Why don’t we get this over with, shall we? Ask me what you want, and then we can get to the terms. I imagine the Grand Mage has given you strict orders.”

She wasn’t going to ask. Because Wreath was the kind of man he was, because of whatever nuisance he’d been to China, Erskine wasn’t going to have to threaten her with the biggest gun of all. Relief closed the distance between his body and his mind, threateningly enough that Erskine felt nausea rise again. He smiled at her, and unpeeled the fruit slowly, focussing on that even while gazing at China.

His stomach settled. Just enough.

“We need you to come back to Ireland and help us, a, create a restraint in the city big enough to contain Death,” said Erskine, “so b, Wreath can take back his body, and then c, you can fix whatever stupidity Craven did to the sigils on him.”

“My,” China murmured. “And you have no sigil-workers of your own? Whatever happened to dear Anton?”

“Anton’s studying the bindings,” said Erskine, “but even he can’t deconstruct something so complex in the time we have, given the stakes at hand.”

He closed his mouth on the ‘nuclear warhead’ thing. Right now, China was here because of the risk Vile would be making a return. Erskine didn’t know whether she would believe that Death might be destroyed by a nuclear warhead, but since she wasn’t currently living in Dublin it wouldn’t make much sense to her to return and put herself at risk if the threat might soon be neutralised. Also, if she might get caught in it.

“And he isn’t a master of sigils, of course,” said China. Erskine glared, just a little, and China laughed. “Ah, so ready to leap to your brother’s defence.”

“Just because he uses sigils in a way you never imagined —” Erskine began.

China scoffed, very delicately. “Erskine, please. If you’d ever accepted an invitation to my apartment, you would see I can do everything the Hotel could do.”

“You never figured out how to tap into the leys,” said Erskine, and smiled sunnily as she paused. “Or how to create transportation circles. Or how to make elevators. That fact is, _China dear_ , everything on this city was inspired by Anton’s Hotel. Not by you.”

_Hope you choke on it,_ he thought bitterly.

“We seem to have gotten off topic,” Adaeze murmured. “Perhaps we should return to the subject at hand?”

Erskine took a deep breath, finished his fruit, and clasped his hands to smile over them at China. “Right. The subject at hand.”

“Quite,” said China, apparently unruffled save that her eyes were narrowed. “What, pray tell, has the Grand Mage told you to offer me?”

“Your life,” said Erskine, and his tone was bitter. He couldn’t help that, probably didn’t need to try. It would only make him seem more sincere. “The Dead Men will swear not to hunt you down and kill you for the murder of Skulduggery’s family, as long as you live. The ones that know, anyway.”

“And how many of you know, pray tell?”

Erskine’s eyes narrowed at he, and her smile. Bitterness rose up faster than bile. He’d _had_ her life in his hands, back when he first found out, back in her library —

He’d given it up, because he’d known it wouldn’t be what Hopeless wanted, because China had occasionally been _useful_ , if not helpful. Because if Skulduggery was trying this hard not to be a supervillain, Erskine could try to honour that choice.

“Skulduggery doesn’t know,” he said shortly. “Ghastly doesn’t know.”

Her eyebrows lift. “I see.” He couldn’t tell if that was surprise or not. “So you told everyone, save those who would want to kill me the most. How … chivalrous of you.”

Erskine smiled and it felt savage. “ _Ghastly_ would want to kill you the most?” Well. He probably would. “Outside of Hopeless, he’s the one who has the best chance of restraining Skulduggery.”

“And yet,” said China, “you didn’t tell him.”

“Because he’s too honest a man,” said Erskine. “If we told him, the first time he looked at Skulduggery, Skulduggery would know something had happened. I won’t make promises on Skulduggery’s behalf — I can’t. And I can’t on Ghastly’s behalf either. But _if_ Skulduggery finds out what you did, and if Ghastly knows, and Skulduggery finds out that he knew …”

He trailed off delicately, and raised his eyebrow, and China hummed. “Your point is well-made.”

“What point?” Khutulun asked. “Explain it to us. For the purposes of this conversation’s recording.”

Oh, that made Erskine extra glad he didn’t have to pull out the big, big gun.

“Ghastly’s the only one likely to be able to stop Skulduggery from killing China if he finds out,” he said, “but he’ll be less effective if Skulduggery thinks Ghastly was hiding it from him to begin with.”

“You _could_ all swear to stop Skulduggery if he made the attempt,” China suggested delicately, and Erskine looked at her, and couldn’t tell exactly what his expression was, except that it made her go still.

“What do you think Hopeless has been doing this whole time?” Erskine asked tightly. “He’s the only reason you’re alive right now, China — for numerous reasons. When we promise not to kill you, it won’t be because we give a rat’s ass about _you_ — it’ll be because Hopeless asked us to. If that’s something you don’t respect, if you’re going to make _Hopeless_ have to come here and deal with you himself while Ireland is in crisis, then unlike the last time the two of you talked, I’m going to be sitting right here when he humiliates you into saying yes.”

Even as the words were coming out of his mouth, Erskine cringed internally. Hopeless wouldn’t blame him for using him like this, like a weapon — because he would have done it. If he had to, he would do exactly what Erskine had just said. And it would make him sad, that he’d had to; it would hurt him, to use his power like that, like it always did. Erskine hated using him like that.

But he would do it. And China knew it, and her eyes narrowed. 

“I’ve heard far more convincing arguments, Ravel,” she said, very unfriendly, and it was a concession as much as it was a denial.

“Never,” said Erskine, “underestimate what we’ll do to preserve Ireland, China. Never forget what we’ve already done for her.”

“I never do, dear Erskine.” She smiled tightly. “I never, ever do. Do you? Sometimes I do wonder if any of you realise how truly terrifying you all are.”

Erskine thought of Donegan, throwing up his hands, accusing them of having secrets, of _being secrets_. And Donegan knew about Skulduggery. China didn’t. Erskine could have made her do anything he wanted, with that knowledge; that Death being out risked Skulduggery himself. That wasn’t including Anton’s half-leashed gist, or Rover’s age, or Dexter’s honing of his constructs.

Maybe Bane had a good reason to freak out.

He smiled back, just as tightly. “We do.”

“I don’t believe you,” said China, and rose from the table. “I expect to be able to return to the Tír as soon as I’ve provided this service to your Grand Mage, of course.”

“We won’t stop you,” Erskine said. “The Tír is a sovereign city, and an ally. Ireland abides by the relationship we’re developing.”

“Lovely,” said China, and smiled at him as though she could weaponise the act. She could. It was just that it had long since stopped threatening him, and she knew that too. “Then give me fifteen minutes to collect some things. Where shall I meet you?”

“The base of the tower,” said Khutulun. “Mr Renn has agreed to teleport you, Mr Ravel, and several squads of sigil-masons to Dublin.”

“Very good,” said China, and swept out of the room without another word.


	36. Killing Craven

There was rubble on the ground. There was rubble _all over_ the ground, and Craven’s hand was clammy on his amulet as he scrambled over bits and pieces, and tried to keep his head down. The Death Bringer floated over the top of them on a raft of shadows, and stepped daintily down into the Government Buildings’ courtyard. Craven hated him for that, that he had more control over his magic than Craven did right now.

He should have just coerced Wreath.

It was quiet just here, but there were screams in the distance, and the sound of heavy footsteps, and roars. Craven glanced sideways through the wall, and looked away again, very quickly. There were still those — giant things in the city. Still so many of them. What was a museum _doing_ , keeping so many of those things in crates in the basement, anyway?! Craven thought they were supposed to be _rare_!

It wasn’t only the lizards, either. There’d been people in the mix, ancient people which had made something paralysingly frozen run down Craven’s spine if he looked at them. Mostly, he didn’t look.

“High Priest —”

Senior cleric, and sounding _terrified_ , and Craven rounded on him snarling.

“Get back out there and keep the people contained!”

The senior cleric bobbed something less than the standard depth of bow and shadow-walked away to — wherever the other clerics were holding those who had remained. If Craven looked, he’d see them: he’d seen more broken buildings, and terrified mortals herded into a corner. Quiver was handling it, probably to stay out of the Death Bringer’s way. In that moment Craven hated him and his pragmatic cowardice with a bitter heat that burned his chest.

Who had ordered that part, anyway? Had it been Death, or had it been Craven? Craven couldn’t remember. When the Passage began, it wouldn’t matter who was where. All the unworthy everywhere would fall down, no matter whether they were cowering terrified under the shadows of the faithful or not.

He was starting to wonder whether the Passage would actually happen …

No. He wouldn’t think that. It _would_. It would.

Something behind Craven took a step, something that scraped stone and made the ground tremble, and Craven scrambled over the last of the debris to join the Death Bringer.

He wasn’t sure it was safer here —

But those things out _there_ were worse.

It wasn’t easy to catch up, either, because the Death Bringer started walking with that long easy stride Wreath had at his most obnoxious. It made even more so because the Death Bringer didn’t seem subject to ordinary biology, despite being in someone else’s body.

“My lord —” Craven began. The Death Bringer had demanded the title. It curdled on Craven’s tongue.

“I know this place,” said the Death Bringer.

“Yes, it’s where the mortal government leads,” said Craven, and then amended. “Led. We’ve successfully taken over the block. My lord —”

“Then it’s where I will.”

Craven cast a glance over the building they were now entering. Part of the roof had fallen in — probably as the creatures were first flailing their way out of the museum. They were right next to each other, after all.

“My lord,” he said, trying to sound strong and mostly just succeeding in sounding shaken, “the mortals will come here, and retaliate.”

“Let them,” said the Death Bringer, and his footsteps echoed on the floor before the stairs. “They may be more entertaining than you.”

“My lord —” Something panicked fluttered in Craven’s chest. Not that he’d ever expected magic to remain a secret after the Passage, but this wasn’t even the Passage. This wasn’t saving anyone, least of all himself! “If you wish to — play — we’ve gathered plenty of people in one of the other buildings —”

The Death Bringer sneered. “The terrified, the cowering. I’m tired of those. Bring those who fear and come anyway; bring those who _shine_. They cannot kill me.” He turned on the steps, and smiled with vivid red eyes. Craven swallowed hard. “I _am_ Death, and they will worship me.”

“But —” A spike of shadow impaled itself in Craven’s chest from behind. He wasn’t, he reflected dully, all that surprised, really, despite the startled jolt he felt looking down at it. That might have been fear … it was _definitely_ fear. This wasn’t how his plans were meant to go. His heart beat faster, and futile. “… I don’t want to die …”

“I don’t care,” said Death, and tore him to shreds.

* * *

Saffron sat quietly in the broken-down room along with the other people who had been in the Government Buildings, and clasped her hands together, hoping the other necromancers wouldn't notice her. There was no reason to — she wore a simple robe, but from a distance it looked like a dress, and she had no item; and no one noticed healers, really, they were simply there to provided a necessary service. Surely there was no one who would remember her, as long as she was quiet, and still.

Not everyone was quiet and still. There were some people tied up with shadows near the front, bound and gagged; and many others sobbing or shouting. The clerics ignored them all.

Cleric Quiver was at the front, surveying the prisoners with a blank face. He was the only one with a hood lowered, and Saffron ducked her head so he wouldn't see her, her heart pounding.

He had seen her that morning, with Cleric Baritone; she was sure of it. But now he was here —

Maybe he was truly with the High Priest after all.

One of the other clerics brought in someone else, hovering overhead on tendrils of shadows, and dumped them on the floor.

"Gently," said Quiver without looking.

"They're only mortals," said the other cleric with a sneer, and Quiver looked at her until her sneer faltered. She turned away with a shrug to join the other clerics against the far wall. It should have been another room; but there was no other wall there. It had been broken down.

Some of them were laughing, enjoying themselves with the food and drink gathered from the Government Buildings. Some of those looked nervous, glancing around as if they expected something to happen, or as if they were in the wrong place. But others, while they were eating and drinking, just looked terrified and hesitant, and glanced toward Quiver, and then at their peers.

Every now and then, the floor trembled, and somewhere past the walls Saffron could hear shouting and gunfire.

"They'll give up soon," said one of the clerics who was enjoying themselves, and shadows bulged in the corner and a cleric stumbled out with a gasp.

"The High Priest —!" he squeaked. "The Death Bringer has killed the High Priest!"

Cleric Quiver looked at him, and then surveyed the prisoners. He lifted his quill, and one of the prisoners bound in shadows lunged forward with a muffled yell; and shadows speared through the chests of all the clerics who'd been so recently laughing. In the deathly silence Quiver's shadows withdrew, and their corpses toppled still with mirth on their faces.

The shadows around the woman who'd just been dropped dissolved. Some of the clerics who'd been at the edges of the crowd shrank away, dropping the food and drink that had been in their hands, and tried to pretend they'd been part of the dissenters all along.

"Then we may stop this nonsense," said Quiver. "Unbind them."

"Um ..." The cleric stared, eyes popping, but the ones over by the wall hastened to come close. The shadows wrapped around people loosened, letting them stretch their limbs. One of them, one in the garda uniform, went to the woman still prone on the floor, and Saffron —

Saffron rose, and was startled that she had. She made her way through the people, her heart suddenly pounding but pace sure; and she didn't dare look at Quiver as she kneeled by the woman.

"Let me," she said.

"I think she knocked her head when she was dropped," said the man.

"Let me," Saffron repeated, and cradled the injured woman's head, and channelled magic to her hands. This wasn't an energy-thrower's power; this was soft and imbuing, something healing. The woman's dazed eyes blinked, and blinked again, and cleared.

"What —?" she asked unsteadily.

"You're safe," Saffron told her with a smile, and looked up at Cleric Quiver standing over them.

This time he was most _certainly_ looking back; but he didn't say anything. Just looked at her with a blank, inscrutable face. Then he turned instead toward the other clerics. "Where are the garda?"

"They've got barricades around the block," someone offered. "Why?"

"Because," said Quiver, "we're going to help all these people avoid Death to get to the nearest barricade, and then we're going to surrender."


	37. The nicest town in Ireland

How did this happen, Phil wondered in the moments when he had the time for it. How was it that he got lumped with this duty twice in a year? He hadn’t even been at the Government Buildings! Then everyone with legs in the garda had been sent out, and somehow — 

Somehow, when Phil had arrived on the block in response to the terror alert, he’d been given command of one of the closest cordons. Something about having past experience.

Past experience with _what?!_ Who had past experience with _rampaging dinosaurs_?!

“Are there any flying ones?” he asked, and got a headshake in response.

“As far as we can tell there either weren’t any or they weren’t able to be — um, animated — sir. We’re trying to see if any of the people we’ve detained are from the museum —”

“Sir!” someone shouted, and pointed in the direction of what Phil had _not_ been looking at — the block where the Government Buildings were.

He looked anyway, because he couldn’t not, and saw a bloom of shadow which at least wasn’t screaming and clawing like the critters from six months ago. But it lifted and lifted, above even the height of the — dinosaurs — and at the top of it he saw the shape of a person standing, like a king surveying his domain.

“Anyone got binoculars?” he asked.

“There’s a man up there,” someone else confirmed. “He looks like he’s got tattoos all over him.”

Phil felt a funny little jolt somewhere around his ribs. “Funny, he seemed like the decent kind six months ago.”

“What?”

Phil shook his head and turned away, and cringed as there was a collision of dead flesh against stone, and the sound of debris falling. “Was anyone under that?”

“No, sir,” said his — assistant. He guessed. Did he have an assistant? Well, he did now. Where was Doyle, anyway? He was sure she’d been around. “But it’s, um, coming this way.”

Phil looked up, and saw the heavy bulk of the — dinosaur — fitting itself badly around a corner, and aimed down their street and the additional width provided by Merrion Square on one side. He groaned. “Get everyone off the road or get into the centre of it, leave the cars; have everyone who doesn’t have to be here fall back. If it seems like it’s going to notice us, the rest of us will pull back fast into the surrounding buildings _.”_

If it didn’t, and it wasn’t the first one that wouldn’t, they could stay right where they were, accounting for dodging its big feet. It wasn’t much of a cordon, when they could do _absolutely nothing_ to cordon the biggest threats, but there were … things potentially out on the street too.

Phil wanted to say ‘people’, but he’d gotten a report from someone wide-eyed and trembling like a leaf ten minutes ago, and the most the man could gasp was something about a zombie apocalypse. It’d been an effort not to laugh hysterically in his face and tell him that had started six months ago.

A moment later Phil heard his orders being shouted from a megaphone, but he was more concerned with watching the dinosaur and making sure it wouldn’t look down. And then he was more concerned with the movement around its feet, of human-shaped figures wearing ancient clothes, or in some cases _not_ wearing ancient clothes, and closing in on them. There they were.

Part of him wanted to curse, but that seemed too understated for what was happening right now.

“Sir!” Doyle vaulted over one of the cars and dropped behind it, breathing hard.

“There you are,” said Phil conversationally, his gaze still on the road. “Where’s Connors?”

“Sir, there’s zombies coming along with the brachiosaur, sir,” said Doyle with the brittle haste of clarity. Two of the garda nearby blanched.

“I can see that,” said Phil.

“Connors got wedged into a door further ahead, sir.”

Well, he wasn’t dead, then. Maybe. Hopefully. Phil nodded again, and turned to look around for that assistant he apparently had. Half the people here were in business wear, for God’s sake, and being processed after coming from inside the cordon. There were too many people in the buildings on either side to evacuate them all; clearing the street was the best they could do.

“Detective Inspector.” His assistant appeared, looking grey but composed, and with the megaphone still in her hands.

“What’s your name?” he asked, unexpectedly even to himself.

“Marion, sir. Marion Dunkle.”

“Right, then, Marion,” said Phil, and had to raise his voice over the sound of footsteps crunching asphalt and people screaming. “We’ll need to keep the cars where they are and take cover in the doorways as the dinosaur passes. Do we have sharpshooters?”

“No, sir,” said Marion.

“Well, we don’t want to shoot the dinosaur’s legs indiscriminately if that means it’ll fall on top of everything,” said Phil, “so have everyone ready for closer combat. Stop as many of them as we can, and avoid getting stepped on. We’ll regroup the cordon in the same place.”

“Yessir!” Marion turned and raised the megaphone, and Doyle checked her rifle. No beanbags this time.

“I shot some of them, sir,” she said almost apologetically, under the tinny ring of the megaphone. “They got up again.”

“They’re zombies, Doyle. That isn’t surprising.” Phil was almost surprised to realise he believed it, and that he felt distantly calm. Maybe he was adjusting. Maybe he was just that far in over his head.

Phil drew his handgun and took a place over the car’s bonnet, somewhere in the middle where the dinosaur was unlikely to step. To his side, others of the garda were rushing to take cover, weapons at the ready; to the other he was aware of the same, but Doyle was closest, rising up to take a stand by his shoulder with her rifle over the car’s roof.

The ground shook, and the car rattled under Phil’s elbows, and asphalt cracked somewhere in front of him, followed by the shrieking static crash of a light-post tipping over. He could almost ignore the dinosaur, _almost_ , if he narrowed his sight down the middle, where the zombies were.

“Ready,” he shouted, and flicked off the safety, and heard the sound of a dozen garda doing the same. “Aim for the zombies! Fire at will!”

They fired, and zombies fell, but it was hard to say the garda was doing anything really helpful, because the zombies just got up again — and kept moving. Moving faster, too. Phil always thought zombies were slow, but these weren't. They weren't like those movies, either; they moved like people, casual but determined, as if there was nothing to worry about but they were annoyed, anyway. Maybe there wasn't, for them.

And they were close enough, now, that Phil could definitely say they were wearing things he'd only ever seen in museums, in exhibits, or just — occasionally — bare skeleton, as though whatever force had put skin and muscle on the dinosaurs had run out before giving it to the people. Phil was thankful for that. It would have been a lot harder to shoot them if they'd had faces.

It'd be a lot easier to _kill_ them if they _stayed dead_.

The dinosaur's foot landed less than five feet away, a heavy crunch of a thing that made everything in its near vicinity jump, including cars and people. But it didn't seem to be aiming for anything — it just kept walking, following the line of buildings flanking the street, and the brief moment it took to make sure of that was nearly lethal.

"Sir —!"

Phil's gaze snapped back down to find a zombie in his face with a sword in hand, and he jerked back from the cover of the car to avoid the slash. He thought zombies tried to _eat_ people —!

He fired his gun in its face and its head blew off, and that didn't seem to stop it. It lunged again, trying to stab him with the sword while he tried to avoid that _and_ not get knocked over by the dinosaur's footsteps, and everywhere around him the _other_ zombies were doing the same thing. People were shouting, and the dinosaur was starting to get agitated, and Phil heard the sound of a car being crushed under its foot as it picked up its pace.

Shadows seized the zombie's arms and yanked it back hard, and it went sailing across the street and impaled on the end of a lamp-post. Phil stood staring and panting, and more shadows collected, leaving people in their wake even as they flung zombies off cars and still-living defenders.

Someone cursed just as Phil's brain pinged and he shouted, lunging: " _Hold fire, hold your fire!_ "

The same person cursed, their voice higher than before, and a gun went off; but there was a wall of shadows there instead, and when it dispersed the bullet dropped to the ground. Phil took a step forward and tried to pretend he wasn't shaking all over.

Maybe he wasn't. Maybe that was the dinosaur walking away.

He cleared his throat. "Detective Inspector Phil Marmot, I'm in charge of this cordon. I'm familiar with Clerics Baritone and Pandemona of Ireland, and Annunziata of Italy. Are — are any of them —?"

The necromancers held back, and Phil's voice died slowly on withering hope. They all looked like they meant business, but then — why bother rescuing them ...?

One of them stepped forward, the only one without a hood. He was a tall bony fellow without any emotion on his face. "Cleric Quiver," he said, "and we're here to surrender. But first — there are some hostages from the Government Buildings stuck around the corner."

Phil swallowed hard, and he set his feet. "Then why don't you bring them here?"

Quiver turned and pointed silently, and Phil took another step forward to see the length of street. It looked oddly large and empty now the dinosaur was no longer in it, but there were shapes on the ground picking themselves up, and Phil's heart shrivelled. "You didn't kill them!?"

"We can't kill them," said Quiver. "They were made by someone far more powerful than us."

"Cleric Wreath," said Phil, and felt sick, and even sicker when Quiver looked faintly surprised.

"No," said Quiver. "Someone who's taken over his body."

Now Phil swallowed down bile. "Oh, that ... armour thing ...” Quiver’s eyebrows rose. Phil nodded. “Okay, got it. And you can't kill them." He paused to take a breath. "Please tell me they can't possess anyone."

"No," said Quiver.

"Okay," said Phil, and nodded again. "Then we're going to need a bigger barricade. And maybe a tank. Are the hostages safe?"

"For the moment," said Quiver, "but there aren't enough of us to shadow-walk them all out. Most of us can only shadow-walk ourselves."

Phil looked at the zombies down the street. None of them were making a move for the barricade being hastily and shakily reconstructed around them. He heard an engine and the squeal of metal as someone tried to move the broken car.

Actually, Phil thought, it looked more like the zombies were _regrouping_. They didn't seem to have a concept of taking cover — why would they? They couldn't die.

Phil looked around, and beckoned toward Marion. "Well," he said to Quiver, "then those of you who _can_ shadow-walk more than themselves are going to take a group of us to the hostages, and then you're all going to help us make something that can move forward down the street until we take the corner."

He expected some argument, some pointing out of flaws in his plan. Instead Cleric Quiver nodded and turned toward the other awkwardly-hovering necromancers, and Phil turned toward Marion and Doyle, looking ruffled but ready.

“Sir,” said Doyle, “volunteering, sir. And Connors is still out there, sir.”

“I know,” said Phil grimly. “Go and pick a team of four. You’re in charge.”

“Yes sir!” Doyle snapped a salute up and moved away. Phil took one last deep breath, marshalling his thoughts to inform the other defenders of the plan and wondering, one last time, how he’d managed to be the most qualified person for this.


	38. Who knows what darkness

“Do we have any updates?”

“We’ve got a radio transmission from some areas near the Government Buildings, through garda dispatchers. And some patchy text messages. We’re putting them together now.”

“Any details that stand out?”

“It looks like some of the necromancers want to surrender …”

The room hadn’t got all that quieter, but there was something about the noise that was more — refined. Less people panicking and yelling, more people _doing stuff_. Meanwhile Valkyrie was sitting over here in the corner with Skulduggery, and Wreath, who were more interested in arguing with each other.

Somehow she was the skeleton’s keeper. She wasn’t surprised, exactly, but it was a little irritating and a little relieving all at once. She didn’t have to stand around the table with the map and pretend she was older than she was, that she wasn’t scared.

Sometimes it was kind of useful being younger than everyone thought was competent. She didn’t need to pretend. Unlike some … like Rover. He was falling apart, enough that one of the generals had told him bluntly to get it together or get out, and Rover’s face had crumpled.

Now the Dead Men were clustered in the furthest corner from the table. Rover was pacing and babbling. Saracen was listening. Anton had left only to bring up tea no one had touched and Daisy, which he was cleaning while reading a sketch Hopeless had given him.

They hadn’t left. Hopeless had asked them not to leave. He was probably waiting for something.

Valkyrie looked up at the sound of footsteps, and Hopeless sat in the other chair nearby, like just thinking about him had summoned him over. He didn’t smile. He looked tired.

And he looked at her, quiet and open and attentive, the way he always did whenever they were talking and she needed someone to listen.

‘How are you doing?’ he asked.

“I don’t know,” said Valkyrie honestly. “Okay, I guess. Today kind of started out on a bummer and then got worse.”

All of this happening, everything being done in public, didn’t change that there was still stuff happening no one else could see, people being hurt that couldn’t be helped, because it wasn’t as obvious as a dinosaur rampage in Dublin. She couldn’t help but think of Julian and his being locked up in a hospice under a disguise that actively tortured him without having to hurt his body at all.

She didn’t want to think about it, and now wasn’t the time to distract Hopeless with it. Instead she looked back at him, eyes narrowed. “How are _you_?” She wasn’t just talking about the whole collision of worlds thing, either. She jerked her head toward the table near the map. “Shouldn’t you be over there dealing with that?”

The necromancers surrendering, that was.

Hopeless’s smile was rueful, and he waggled his hand. It wasn't a good sign, Valkyrie thought, since Hopeless didn’t tend to tell her when he wasn’t feeling well. Either that, or it was a very good sign, because he was actually being honest with her. It made her through feel grown-up. It it was also pretty terrifying.

‘How is Skulduggery?’

Valkyrie glanced sidelong toward the skeleton and shrugged. “I’m not sure if they hate each other or not," she said. "Sometimes it seems as though they're almost enjoying themselves, and then Wreath says something Skulduggery doesn't like. Ghastly says they knew each other, but Skulduggery doesn't believe him.”

And if Skulduggery doesn’t believe _Ghastly_ , then he’s either being super stubborn or there’s something else going on.

‘They knew each other,’ signed Hopeless, and Valkyrie looked at him curiously.

“Did _you_ know him?” she asked.

Hopeless waggled his hand again. ‘I know that Wreath is speaking the truth,’ he said. ‘He did know Skulduggery, very well, and then something happened between them.’

“Like what?” asked Valkyrie, now intrigued. If Hopeless was talking about this, then it meant that something really had happened and it might not be private. But Hopeless just smiled and tapped his nose the same way Saracen did when he was being his most annoying. Valkyrie scowled. “That's mean. I have to sit here and listen to them argue about whether or not they knew each other, and you're not telling me whether or not it's true.”

‘I did tell you it's true,’ said Hopeless, looking amused. ‘You just want more detail.'

“Of course I do!” Valkyrie exclaimed. “They've been arguing about this all morning, and I'm not going to pass up the chance to lord it over Skulduggery when I know something he doesn't. Also, when he’s wrong and I’m right. It doesn’t happen that often.”

Hopeless laughed quietly, and Valkyrie grinned. It was kind of annoying, having to listen to Skulduggery and Wreath argue, but if Hopeless thought there was something to it, then that was enough. Valkyrie could investigate. She could even taunt Skulduggery to her heart's content by pretending to side with Wreath. Or actually siding with Wreath.

From out in the hall there came the sound of people approaching, and everyone in the room sat up and paid attention. Everyone except Hopeless, who sat like there was nothing to worry about — so maybe this was what he’d been waiting for all this time. The other Dead Men looked toward him and then relaxed.

For some reason that just made the generals more nervous, Valkyrie was interested to see. She wondered what they thought it meant. Maybe they figured it meant something magical was about to happen.

It did — sort-of. One of the military guards came in and saluted. “Sirs. There’s a man downstairs who says he was called —”

“That’d be Ghastly,” said Saracen cheerfully. “Let him up, he’s one of ours.”

“And by ‘yours’ do you mean …?” The general who’d spoken drifted off, looking at Saracen, then looking at Anton and Rover. Anton looked wiry and dangerous; Rover looked like someone about to do something dumb, like the falling apart he was halfway through. Saracen, next to them, looked relaxed and flippant, and just a little too pudgy to be an accomplished soldier. Valkyrie knew better. The people here didn’t.

“I mean he’s magical, and he’s a Dead Man,” said Saracen. “He’s our tailor.”

There was a brief pause while everyone tried to figure out if he was joking or not, except the Taoiseach, who turned to the guard. “Please bring him up immediately.”

The guard saluted a little more, and then vanished, and the Taoiseach turned to Saracen with a smile and a look in his eyes that Valkyrie recognised from anyone who’d ever met the Dead Men while knowing who they are.

“How many of you do I have here, now?” he asked. “Would it be too much pressure to say I’m reassured?”

“Oh, we’re used to pressure,” Saracen told him. “Anton owns a pressure cooker of his own.”

Valkyrie laughed. The Taoiseach hesitated. “Am I allowed to laugh at that?”

“That’s up to you,” said Saracen. “For some reason, no one ever laughs when we joke about Anton. I don’t know why. He’s the funniest man I’ve ever met.”

Anton grunted, and closed the hinge in Daisy’s chassis. The generals looked at him with trepidation, and Valkyrie laughed again. Even Hopeless smiled.

“Who _are_ you?” one of the generals asked, sounding as if he wasn’t sure he wanted to know. He was one of the ones who’d talked the most and the Taoiseach seemed to like best: black-skinned and grey-haired. Valkyrie was pretty sure his label said ‘Gen. Hammond’. “How many do you have?”

“Eight Dead Men,” said Saracen. “Ghastly Bespoke will be the sixth we have here. You’ve heard from Erskine, he’ll be here soon.”

“And the eighth?”

Rover’s face went very, very brittle, and he turned away clutching his dogtags in his fist. Anton’s brow furrowed — Valkyrie just couldn’t think of him as _scowling_ , even though that was what it looked like.

“He’s indisposed,” Saracen said simply. Valkyrie glanced at Hammond. He looked — sympathetic, and Valkyrie remembered that these were soldiers too, who’d probably seen people lost and injured under their command. It made her feel a little better.

“Why do they call you Dead Men?” he asked, and didn’t look at Skulduggery, the way some of the others did. That made Valkyrie feel better still.

“Because,” said Ghastly from the door, “there’s still eight of us, even though we went on suicide mission after suicide mission.”

Valkyrie vaulted off her chair toward the door to wrap her arms around his chest, and then pulled back to take the parcels in his arms. “Finally! Do you know how worried we all were?”

“Hey,” Rover whined, “that’s _my_ line! Aodh, she’s stealing my lines!”

“Good,” Anton said. “You need new material.”

Ghastly smiled down at Valkyrie. He looked a lot less tired than everyone else Valkyrie had seen in the past couple of hours. That made her feel much better than anything the generals could have done. “Are you going to let me in?”

“Thinking about it,” said Valkyrie, and made room in the doorway, carrying the packages toward the side-table where she’d been sitting with Skulduggery and Hopeless.

Skulduggery’s head jerked toward her. “Ah, is that for me?”

“Yes,” said Ghastly. “I thought the rest of us would need our armour."

“What about me?” Valkyrie demanded, pulling open the parcel labelled with Skulduggery’s name to shake the armour onto his lap. He looked down at it with a vague air of surprise.

“Ah, it’s been a while,” he said. “Anyway, you just had something tailored, Valkyrie.”

“I should still get cool armour,” Valkyrie grumbled. Laughing silently, Hopeless took one of the parcels and rose to give it to the Taoiseach.

“For me?” asked the Taoiseach with a blink.

“That suit will protect you against anything the necromancers can come up with,” said Ghastly. “It won’t do as well against fire or other Elemental effects, so avoid those if you can; but it won’t be pierced, it can’t be bludgeoned, and it’s bullet-proof.”

“Ghastly’s suits are better than Kevlar,” said Valkyrie proudly, and the Taoiseach looked vaguely overwhelmed as he took the parcel as if he was being given a great treasure. Well, he kind of was. Hopeless smiled encouragingly.

“Anyway, the necromancers collectively aren’t all that much of an issue anymore,” said Saracen, “or did I just imagine someone saying they’ve all surrendered?”

One of the aides, just in the middle of handing a sheet of paper to one of the generals, stared. Saracen smiled charmingly.

“I didn’t say they’d _all_ surrendered,” said the general, nonplussed.

“But they did,” said Saracen. “Which leaves us with zombies, dinosaurs, and Death, oh my.”

Someone, more than one person, laughed inappropriately and then stopped themselves short. It was still a pretty terrifying list.

“Sir,” said Hammond, “may I advise you change into that —” He glanced toward Ghastly. “— magical suit as soon as possible?”

“Yes, I …” The Taoiseach cleared his throat. “Yes, I think I’ll do that. And you, Grand Mage?” Hopeless nodded. The Taoiseach hesitated. “Do you intend to go out into the field with the others?”

Hopeless shook his head, and signed, and Valkyrie was closest so she translated. “This is no longer an attack by a handful of zealots. This is an invasion led by a powerful necromantic figure, and he _will_ attack on as many sides as possible, with as many reanimations as he can muster. As long as our ability to communicate across the city is hampered, we’re at a disadvantage.”

“The mobile network is down,” said one of the generals grimly. “We’re passing out radios and keyed into the garda dispatch, but we’re having trouble penetrating —”

“He’s still speaking,” said the Taoiseach quietly, watching Hopeless’s hands, and the general cut short. Valkyrie hid her smile.

“Saracen and I can fix that, but we’ll need to remain here. Anton?” Hopeless turned. Anton looked up from Daisy, attentive and unblinking, and Valkyrie kept translating for the sake of the rest of the room. “We need a circle, like on the Tír. If we can draw them in all the crucial areas of the conflict zones, we’ll be able to communicate instantaneously with other fronts without the need for radio or telephones. The hospital, the barracks, O’Connell Bridge and Lesson Street, and the cordons on the north and south of the Government Buildings. At minimum.”

“We’d need to be able to access those areas for that,” objected one of the generals, and Hopeless smiled, and that was when Erskine walked in, looking indescribably tense and and kind of pale, like he’d been sick recently.

He glanced around, raised his eyebrow and said: “Sitting down on the job, Shudder? That’s about what I’d expect from you.”

Anton grunted. Someone dropped something. It rattled. Valkyrie swallowed the urge to laugh again.

“Lovely,” said Skulduggery-or-Wreath, and when Valkyrie turned she found he’d already gotten changed, in a corner where no one was looking. “I suppose that means we have sigil-masons now?”

“They’re downstairs with Bev’s team,” said Erskine, and bowed toward the Taoiseach. His smile was focused but seemed easy enough, but didn’t hide the pallor. “Fionn. I’d say it’s good to see you again, but I only seem to see you when the world is about to end.”

“It _is_ something of a detraction from your presence,” said the Taoiseach with a quick smile. “Who else do you have downstairs?”

“The sigil-masons,” said Erskine, checking off his fingers, “and Fletcher —”

“The teleporting boy?”

“That’s him. He’s charging us exorbitant sums for his services, by the way. China’s also downstairs.”

Rover made a farting noise. “You sound happy about that. Why do you sound _happy_ about that?”

Erskine smiled. It was Rover’s wickedest smile, the one Rover wore when he was about to do something truly hilariously obnoxious, and it looked unfairly good on Erskine’s face. “Bliss is down there too.”

Rover threw back his head and _laughed_ , a mad cackle of a sound that made him have to sit down, very suddenly, on the edge of Anton’s chair. Anton actually almost smiled himself.

“He wanted to know if there’s anything you need him to do, Descry, otherwise he’s just going to take the cleavers he brought with him and take them toward the Government Buildings to join the cordon at St Stephen’s.”

“Bliss?” someone asked, sounding a bit faint.

“China Sorrows’ brother,” said Erskine, “one of the Sanctuary’s Elders. The Grand Mage’s right-hand man, as it were, if Guild were his left.”

“Personally, I think he should get hands that know how to have more fun,” said Rover. Everyone ignored him. Everyone who knew him ignored him, anyway. Some of the generals looked dubiously at him — or maybe they were aides? They were probably aides, Valkyrie decided. Generals wouldn’t look quite so unnerved. Probably.

“Here,” said Ghastly, shoving a parcel into Erskine’s arms. “Your leathers. Apparently we’re going to the front.”

Erskine looked down at it with vague surprise. “Are we?”

“Well, I figured there was a better than even chance we would,” said Ghastly with a shrug. “It’s where we seem to get put, anyway.”

“I don’t know about this,” said Rover. “If Saracen and Descry are staying here, then that means we’re getting split up.”

“Not the same,” said Saracen and Anton together, and Saracen continued alone. “This is a mission begun separately. We’ve done those before. It doesn’t count as splitting up unless we’re all assigned to the same places together.”

“Yeah, but —”

Hopeless’s hand came down with a sharp crack on the edge of the table, and everyone looked at him. He raised his eyebrow, and the Dead Men shrugged almost in unison. Valkyrie was pretty sure Hopeless was hiding a smile, but his mouth was straight as he signed.

“Bliss can go to St Stephen’s Green, that’s fine, thank you. It’s where the bulk of Fionn’s defensive forces have gone. I want the Monster Hunters to stick with Ghastly, but before then they need to be in the briefing for the sigil-masons, along with Anton and China, and Bev’s team.”

“The Monster Hunters are down there?” Suddenly Rover looked a lot more interested.

“We could use them out in the city,” said Erskine, ignoring him, and Hopeless nodded.

“Yes, and they will be, with Ghastly. But I need them to know what Anton’s sigils teams will be doing in case they need to take over from a downed squad. Anton’s teams need to be split in two: support will be creating communications circles where we already hold territory. Saracen will lead that network with the one here, in this room.”

“I don’t like where this is going,” said Saracen, but Hopeless ignored him, and kept going.

“Anton’s main teams will need to write bindings around the Government Buildings’ block, including behind the line.”

“Me,” said Anton. “You want me to command a team which includes China Sorrows.” Hopeless nodded. “I’ll kill her.” Hopeless looked at him calmly, and eventually Anton looked away with a grunt. “Stop that. It’s disconcerting.”

“To be looked at?” the Taoiseach asked.

“To be trusted,” Anton answered, and said nothing else, but Valkyrie felt her arms goose-bumping and resisted the urge to shiver.

“What about the rest of us?” Ghastly asked, calm and solid and even, and Valkyrie looked at Hopeless’s hands again.

“I want Fletcher to be the hub of a transport network using himself and the necromancers,” said Hopeless. “The ones at the temple who are capable of shadow-walking more than themselves, if they’re strong enough to join us, will be assigned to Anton’s teams as support and defence. Any of the above group remaining will join Fletcher in moving resources where we need them to go, at speed. The ones that aren’t capable of shadow-walking others, if they’re willing, can join the cordon around the Government Buildings.”

“And the ones who’ve surrendered?” asked the general who had received that memo. “The Detective Inspector in charge of the Merrion cordon is using them to press forward. Seems there’s some hostages the necromancers want to help rescue who are stuck behind the line — as a gesture of good will.”

His tone was heavily sarcastic. The Dead Men’s sarcastic was more fun, Valkyrie decided.

“If they’re there already, let them stay there,” said Hopeless. “Bliss will take control of the block and can determine which of them should be detained and which can be used.” Hopeless turned, and pointed Valkyrie to the skeleton behind her. 

“Skulduggery will stay here until the sigils are in place. He — or rather Wreath — is our best chance of telling how Death will be impacted by the bindings, so we need to know whether his state changes.”

“Oh,” said Skulduggery. “And I thought I was putting on my armour for a reason.”

“If Death decides he needs to take care of the threat we post, and comes here, you’ll have to fight him.”

“Ah!” Skulduggery perked up. “I don’t particularly want to do that, but I suppose I can appreciate my skills being … appreciated.”

“Stellar articulation, there,” Valkyrie muttered, and his skull turned slowly toward her, but she ignored it, since he wouldn’t be able to tell if it was her or Hopeless. Probably. Hopeless was smiling faintly, so it was a good cover.

“Erskine, take a group to St James’s Hospital. Death won’t focus on it explicitly without anyone left to strategise for him, but the wider he spreads his influence the more likely there’ll be zombies in their morgue. He may not mean to interfere with tending the injured, but that doesn’t mean it won’t be effective.”

“ _Has_ he been spreading his influence?” Erskine asked, and Hopeless nodded.

“Definitely,” said Skulduggery-or-Wreath. “Luckily, it isn’t the fall-down sort. More of the stand-up-and-walk-around sort.”

“Fun,” Erskine muttered. “Is that all?”

“While you’re there, check in on Dexter.”

"Oh, if Dexter’s there you won’t need _me_ ,” said Erskine with a grin, and with a jolt in her stomach Valkyrie realised he didn’t know, he hadn’t been in contact — it hadn’t been brought up around him. Rover made a sound like a dog whining and the grin wiped from Erskine’s face. “He — _is_ there as part of the defence, right?”

Hopeless shook his head sombrely and Erskine cursed, then glanced at her. “Sorry.”

“I learned a new word today,” said Valkyrie brightly, and Erskine laughed, a bit unwillingly; but so did some of the generals, so it was probably okay.

“What about _me_ , oh mighty leader?” Rover demanded, and Hopeless smiled faintly.

“You and Ghastly are going to need Gordon’s yacht.”

Rover squealed with understated delight. Valkyrie blinked, realised what had just come out of her mouth, and rounded on Hopeless. “ _No_. We’re not destroying _Gordon’s yacht_?”

‘Did I say destroying?’ Hopeless asked, still with a smile.

“It’s _Rover_. On a _battlefield_. It’s going to wind up destroyed.” She’d been practicing walking on water, and air control, on that yacht for the last year. That wasn’t fair.

“Hey,” Rover protested. “That yacht was a _present._ It was a present from _Gordon_. As if I’d let it be destroyed!” He hopped up to bow with a flourish at Hopeless. “And what would you like me to do with it, oh capitan my capitan?”

‘Make it fly,’ said Hopeless, and Valkyrie laughed suddenly as Rover squealed.

“I’m not so sure about this,” said Ghastly dubiously. “You’re expecting me to partner with _Rover_ on making a yacht fly, _and_ you want me to babysit the Monster Hunters. I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

“At least,” said Hopeless with a twinkle in his eyes and through Valkyrie swallowing her laughter, “there’s no way _you’ll_ run it into the docks.”

Skulduggery-or-Wreath let out a sound like a laugh being strangled by someone else. Ghastly nodded. “That _is_ true. _I_ know how to not run ships into docks. Unlike some people.”

“I did _not_ run your mother’s ship —” Skulduggery began, and then his skull snapped to the side.

“You _did_. You said ‘I can fix this’, and then you _did not fix it_.”

Snap. “Excuse me, how would _you_ know?”

Snap. “I was _there_ , you great bony pillock,” said Wreath, “diving into the water at the last minute, because I, unlike you, saw that you _would not,_ in fact, avoid the dock.”

Skulduggery said nothing for a moment, but then his head tipped. “That was you?”

“Looking away from Skulduggery and Wreath’s marital issues for a moment,” said Erskine, and someone made a softly strangled noise in the back of the room, “exactly what do we want a flying yacht for? Especially one piloted by _Rover_?”

“Oy!”

“And Ghastly,” Erskine added, as if in afterthought.

“Oy,” Ghastly protested.

“We do have helicopters,” the Taoiseach agreed dubiously. “I’m not entirely sure what a flying yacht could do that a helicopter couldn’t.”

“Approach the Government Buildings silently and inconspicuously,” said Hopeless, and he turned to Erskine. “Tell Gracious and Donegan that if they want to test that cloaking device, the time is now. Or once they’ve had their sigil briefing, anyway.”

Erskine looked startled. “They got that working?”

“Enough,” said Hopeless. “Just enough.”

“And what, exactly, do you expect that to do?” asked probably-Wreath, with shades of the polite sarcasm Skulduggery used. Hopeless looked at him for a moment, and Skulduggery’s skull tipped. “I really don’t know what you mean by that expression.”

A twitch. “I do,” said Skulduggery. “That’s his ‘I know something about you that you don’t know I know, and knowing it means I know how stupid you’re being right now’ look.”

“Ah, that look,” said Saracen, nodding knowingly. “We all know that look.”

“Definitely,” Erskine agreed. “It’s definitely a look. Why’s he wearing it for _Wreath_?”

“He and Skulduggery _are_ friends,” said Valkyrie perkily, and Hopeless was laughing, so she counted that a win.

“Death is working on Vile levels of power right now,” she translated for Hopeless, and her face fell even as she resisted the urge to insert a remark of her own. “That means any helicopters will be within range, and none of them are quiet enough to avoid attention. The only way to get close overhead is to be quick, be quiet, and if at all possible, be non-existent.”

“I don’t know how well the Monster Hunters can manage _that_ ,” muttered Skulduggery. Hopeless ignored him.

“Death will almost _certainly_ feel the bindings going up. More than likely, we’ll have to fight him. The yacht gives us a platform from which to perform a surprise attack. Rover, Ghastly and the Monster Hunters will test it, and then head for the Government Buildings to provide observation and cover for the binding teams and, when necessary, evacuation. Meanwhile, Guild is trying to rally some sorcerer backup and will send them over on each of Fletcher’s rounds to the Sanctuary. Additions?”

Hopeless looked around at them all, even and steady, and open to suggestions. No one spoke for a moment; and then someone did.

“In the half an hour we’ve been in here trying to figure out how the hell we’re going to prevent an apocalypse,” said the Taoiseach, “you’ve been sitting quietly in a corner and coming up with all this?”

“Annoying, isn’t he?” Skulduggery asked conversationally. “Just really irritatingly competent. He makes me understand how everyone else feels around _me_.”

There was a scatter of half-relieved laughter, but Erskine was frowning, still turned toward Hopeless. “What about you?”

Hopeless widened his eyes. “What about me?”

“If Saracen’s covering the command circle,” said Erskine, very calmly, “and Skulduggery’s the nuclear — sorry — option, who’s sticking with you?”

“I am,” said Valkyrie, and then added as Hopeless signed: “And Saracen is, and —” Valkyrie made a face at the silent hulk of silvered armour in the corner behind the armchairs. “— Tesseract. And this room full of people here.”

Erskine looked around. “I don’t know,” he said doubtfully. “I’m not sure even you can handle this much man at once.”

Someone choked audibly, and Hopeless laughed silently and patted Erskine’s cheek, and then went to sit in the armchair Valkyrie had abandoned, the one which was, frankly, the most comfortable in the room. Not that she’d been testing them, or anything.

‘I’m going to be reading the city,’ he said, and Valkyrie didn’t translate it because her heart had leapt to her throat, and Erskine’s face went from bemused to utterly frozen.

“Um.” Rover put up his hand. “I don’t like that idea.”

“I agree,” said Saracen. “I _really_ don’t like this idea. Still.”

‘Death can shadow-walk,’ said Hopeless, ‘and more than that, he’s reanimating people and things from a distance, and there’s no way the garda can have stopped dinosaurs from leaving the area around the Government Buildings. People are going to panic, and they’re going to panic fast; and there are too many places where metaphorical fires can start which have nothing to do with fighting Death directly. We need to know exactly where the dangers are, and immediately enough to take action.’

“I’m not in favour,” said Anton darkly, and caressed Daisy in a way that made half the room look at him nervously.

‘Saracen will be right next to me,’ said Hopeless, ‘so he’ll know exactly what I’ll be hearing.’

“Definitely not in favour,” said Skulduggery.

“This isn’t how I meant —” Ghastly began, and Hopeless smiled at him so gently that Ghastly cut off to take a breath, and look away.

‘I know,’ said Hopeless.

“Excuse us,” interjected the man with the salt-and-pepper hair, impatient from by the table and mostly hidden behind all the generals. Valkyrie had almost forgotten him. “It’s rude to hold a conversation no one else can hear.”

“Pearse,” said the Taoiseach quietly, but his eyes were on Hopeless, and Pearse subsided, frowning. “Grand Mage — what are you going to do?”

“He’s going to use his magic,” said Valkyrie, and her heart was pounding. _I didn’t mean for this either,_ she thought at him. _Not like this_. Hopeless smiled, and touched her cheek in a way that felt apologetic and pleading at once. His eyes were very _definitely_ pleading, and Valkyrie swallowed hard.

“Why?” asked Hammond. “What’s his magic?”

Valkyrie looked around, but all the Dead Men’s faces were stony, uncompromising, and none of them moved to answer. For a moment she hated them for that, hated them all — and then she caught Ghastly’s gaze and he smiled at her weakly and the hate died.

She still felt bitter. But, she guessed, she could kind of — well. Maybe not get it. But she remembered what he said, about how long they’d spend keeping this secret, about all of them having to decide together, or not at all.

How much was it costing Hopeless right now, to go against everything all the Dead Men believed, about hiding his magic? She hoped they all felt ashamed of themselves that they were leaving her with this bag just because they were all too set in their ways.

She hoped it made them _change_ their ways.

Valkyrie turned toward the Taoiseach, and squared herself, and said, “He’s a mind-reader.”


	39. Gods and monsters

Valkyrie braced herself for a big reaction, for people shouting. Instead there was silence. Eventually the Taoiseach said, “Oh.” And then he said, “Like Professor X? I mean …” He motioned toward Anton, like a kid the teacher called on who knew the right answer was in there, _somewhere_. “If Mr Shudder is _always angry_ , then …”

Valkyrie almost laughed, and in that moment felt very, extraordinarily grateful for pop culture. “Exactly like Professor X,” she said, and Hopeless made a noise, so she checked herself. “Well, a little like Professor X. He can’t, you know, stop time or anything like that, and he can’t control people with the power of his mind or anything. It’s more like a radio. He can’t broadcast out, just receive transmissions. Which he doesn’t tell anyone. For the record.”

Several people didn’t exactly relax, but they untensed, and the Taoiseach’s nod was brisker. “Got it. So the Grand Mage can determine where the threat is most imminent, exactly as it’s happening.”

“And those circles you mentioned mean we can communicate with all key areas without the risk of radio or networks going down,” said one of the generals, still standing by the map.

“Pretty much.”

“Do it,” said the Taoiseach. “What do you need from us?”

“Sir,” said Hammond, “once we start actioning this, we’ll be moving very quickly. May I remind you to change into that protective suit before we enact our counter-offensive?”

The Taoiseach looked down at the parcel still in his arms in vague surprise. “Ah, yes, there is that.”

“We’ll all need to change,” said Erskine, and glanced sidelong at Anton and Rover. “Well, those of us that didn’t jump the gun, anyway.”

“Excuse,” Rover protested. “There was no gun-jumping here. They’re not sexy enough for me to jump them.”

Valkyrie ignored them, and someone offering to show them to a spare room, and turned toward Hopeless. His eyes were closed, but he opened them when she took his hand, and she pretended she didn’t see that they were wet, or how wobbly his smile was.

“You owe me,” she said, “ _big time_.”

‘I know,’ he signed, one-handed, and touched her cheek, and his smile was small but real. ‘Thank you.’

Well, now _she_ was going to tear up. Valkyrie scowled instead, and tugged on his hand. “Come on, you need to get into your armour too — and I draw the line at helping you with that. Rover’d probably jump at the chance.”

At least he was laughing as he got to his feet, and Erskine was there waiting to take his arm and the parcel that was his armour. There was worry on his face. Valkyrie turned away so she wouldn’t see whatever conversation they weren’t having, and slumped into the chair.

“Well done,” said Skulduggery from somewhere behind her.

“Shut up,” she said without looking around. “I’m super mad at you, okay? At all of you. Except for Hopeless, it’s impossible to be mad at him. He’s like a kicked puppy.”

“Ah,” Skulduggery murmured, and as he nodded she head the rattle of his neck-bones that was starting to become an alarmingly familiar sound. “That’s probably fair.”

The crack of his neck, this time, was a little softer. “I should think there’s nothing _probable_ about it.”

Valkyrie laughed a little, but it was a bitter laugh, and it wasn’t fun, and she stopped doing it, very quickly. “I agree with the necromancer. I’m agreeing with a _necromancer_. That’s how mad I am at you.”

“Oh, let’s not go that far,” said Skulduggery disapprovingly.

“Shut up,” said Valkyrie again. “I’ve already agreed with Guild, what’s one step further?” She couldn’t sit here anymore. The shock of what she’d just done was starting to wear off, so she jumped to her feet and rounded on him. Maybe it was a good thing there was a chair in the way, because if he’d been much closer she might have punched him in the skull, and that would have hurt her fist. A lot.

She might need her fists later.

“You’re just all so — _stupid_. What do faeries have against communicating, huh? What’s the good in keeping all the secrets locked upif the fact they’re locked up is the reason things are about to go bad?”

“Not all of us are terrible at it,” said Skulduggery. “Erskine seems to have done fairly well. In fact, his ability to communicate has been very helpful lately.”

“Erskine still thinks he and Hopeless are _just friends_ ,” said Valkyrie with a roll of her eyes. “Like Rover and Dex thought they were _just friends_.”

Skulduggery touched a gloved finger to his teeth in a mimicry of a shush. “Don’t tell Erskine that. Hopeless would be unhappy if someone got in the way of his process of realisation.”

Valkyrie bit back on an ugly laugh, because that had been _exactly her point_ , right there. She’d feel vindicated about her investigative abilities later. “Yeah, well, Hopeless isn’t infallible.”

“It’s his choice to wait,” said Skulduggery. “Though frankly, he’s been waiting an excruciatingly long time, even by my standards.”

“That’s because he’s —” Valkyrie stopped, and scowled at Skulduggery, and it wasn’t even a fake scowl. “Stop that. Distracting me from telling you off doesn’t make me any less mad.”

Skulduggery twitched.

“Ah, I see why you like her,” said Wreath, sounding entirely too smug for his own good.

“I won’t hesitate to punch you either, Wreath,” Valkyrie threatened.

“But violent. Though that seems standard, for you.”

“Shut up,” said Valkyrie, and managed to keep her mouth on a straight line, even though it wanted to smile. God, they were both annoying. She could really believe they’d been friends, once.

“She’s not wrong,” said Ghastly from behind Valkyrie’s shoulder, and she turned so she wouldn’t have to look at the pair inhabiting the skeleton. Behind him the room was a little emptier, and the only other Dead Men was Anton, using the sketch he’d been examining earlier to draw a circle on a clear stretch of floor marked out by some of the aides.

That meant Ghastly was the only other Dead Man for Valkyrie to scowl at. “I’m not just not wrong —”

“You’re right,” Ghastly corrected himself before she tore him a new one too. He smiled, but his scars twisted it too much to tell if there was meant to be anything but self-deprecation in there. “Sorcerers are raised not to talk to each other, not to interfere. Even when we were younger, we were like that.”

“I wasn’t like that,” Skulduggery objected. “I always interfered.”

“But not when it mattered most,” said Ghastly, “and I didn’t at all. Skulduggery, you and Wreath _were_ friends. The five years you were partnered are some of the happiest I remember seeing you when you were younger. But then you fell out, and instead of asking about it, or trying to help you mend fences, I let it go, and you forgot you’d ever had that joy. And then that day, during the war, the day you left —”

Skulduggery stiffened.

“— I could have followed you, and I didn’t, and that was the last time I saw you for five years.” Ghastly stopped to take a breath, and shook his head, and Valkyrie looked away, trying to pretend _his_ eyes weren’t damp too. Or that hers weren’t, still. “Every day, I wonder what might have happened, if I had followed you.”

“I don’t,” said Skulduggery.

“Shut up,” said Ghastly fiercely, and with a thick voice. “My point is — we’ve learned not to say anything, and we’ve justified it; and because of that, not five minutes ago, a sixteen-year-old girl had to tell the most powerful mortal in the country a secret owned by the most powerful sorcerer in the country. And that’s _wrong_. We shouldn’t be depending on children to do our work for us — the children should be depending on _us_.”

_Hey,_ Valkyrie wanted to say, but this seemed like a really bad time to complain about being called a child. Anyway, it wasn’t really inaccurate. She wasn’t even of age yet. To the Dead Men, a lot of people sometimes seemed like children.

But the moment dragged on while Ghastly blinked up at the ceiling, and Skulduggery said nothing, and Valkyrie wondered if maybe she _should_ say something, if only to crack the weight of feeling that was surrounding them —

“You know,” Wreath mused, “I’d forgotten Bespoke could be like this.”

“Like what?” Valkyrie asked without thinking.

“Humbling,” said Wreath, and Valkyrie laughed, then cut herself off to glance sideways; but Ghastly’s shoulders were trembling, and he was laughing too, even if it looked sort-of like tears. When he lowered his face he was smiling, and his face wasn’t wet.

“You were pretty good at puncturing his ego too. There’s some things the two of you did together that I never got details for.”

“ _Were_ there?” Wreath asked with great interest. “Like what?”

“I never did learn the story behind Lady Gray,” said Ghastly, and then the door opened and Valkyrie cursed the interruption even as they turned.

“Are we ready?” asked the Taoiseach as he came in, fussing with his coat sleeves. Valkyrie was pretty sure it wasn’t because they were ill-fitting. New clothes from Ghastly always felt too heavenly to wear.

Hammond looked up from the table. “We’re ready for the Grand Mage’s direction.”

“The circle is finished,” said Anton tersely, straightening up, along with the aides bent over the the sketch. His hands were shaking a _lot_. That wasn’t good. It took him two tries to fold the blueprint, very carefully.

“I need to go downstairs to find Rover and the Monster Hunters,” said Ghastly quietly to Valkyrie and Skulduggery. He managed a smile, and patted Valkyrie’s shoulder. “I’ll see you later, okay?”

Suddenly Valkyrie’s throat was too tight to talk, so she nodded. She’d be angry at them some more later — when they all got out of this okay. Ghastly turned to leave, squeezing Hopeless’s arm and clapping Saracen on the shoulder as he passed, and Saracen winced.

“I _really_ don’t like this,” he muttered, and stepped into the circle. “ _So_ not ready — but I can manage.”

“Just to be clear,” said the Taoiseach, “after this, you won’t be leaving that circle unless someone else can take over, and anyone else in one of the other circles will be able to see and hear you distributing orders directly from this command centre?”

“Correct,” said Anton.

“Got it.” The Taoiseach turned to Hopeless. “What about you, Grand Mage? I assume you won’t be able to give orders while you’re using your magic. Who takes your place? With whom does the buck stop?”

Hopeless nodded, and signed, and Valkyrie cleared her throat so she _wouldn’t_ sound all husky while she was translating for him. “It’s you, Fionn.”

The Taoiseach paused. “I — what?”

“It’s you,” said Hopeless again. “Bliss and Guild will direct our forces on the ground, and they’ll take care of the Sanctuary. You won’t have authority over our governing processes. But Dublin and Ireland are yours, and these people are yours, and you’ve been given command of the response, so you have the right to say where our forces will go while we stop the Death Bringer. When I can’t make that decision, it falls to you.”

There was a fleeting second when the Taoiseach looked pole-axed; but it was really short, and then he squared his shoulders and nodded. “Okay. Thank you. Detective Pleasant, Mr Rue, Ms Cain, I assume you’ll be able to advise me on anything particularly and immediately untoward?”

“Oh, I’m sure we can manage between us,” said Saracen cheerfully, and Valkyrie nodded, mostly because her mouth was too dry to answer and her heart was currently trying to leap up through her throat to strangle the urge to laugh. There was something funny about the two youngest sorcerers here being the ones to _advise_ the Taoiseach. Skulduggery barely counted. He was compromised.

If she kept having opposite emotions in quick succession like this she was going to wind up with a headache.

“Minister Kavanagh sent up a message,” said Hammond. “They’re integrating the faery squads with ours. She’ll be remaining downstairs to smooth out any conflicts and direct any faeries who might be arriving with Mr Renn.”

“Thank you,” said the Taoiseach, and Hopeless came toward the armchairs, so Valkyrie hastily gave him some room, and pulled one of the others around so she could sit and watch him at once.

… Then she pulled it around a little more, so Tesseract wasn’t _directly_ behind her.

“I would be remiss in my responsibilities if I didn’t tell you you don’t have to do this,” said Skulduggery to Hopeless. “In fact, since Erskine isn’t here, I’m fairly sure someone has to.” Hopeless laughed a little and shook his head; but he didn’t answer, not really, and the laugh didn’t really have humour in it. Skulduggery just sighed. “Ah, well. I did my best.”

“ _That’s_ your best?” Valkyrie muttered.

“I notice you didn’t say anything at all.”

“I did. Just not where you could hear it.”

Hopeless’s laugh this time was real, even as he pressed the thoughtspeaker to his temple. Static was a soft buzz as he rested his head back, untangling his prayer-rope between his fingers.

“Okay,” he said, and the thoughtspeaker was a little glitchy, like there was a conversation going on behind him. A louder conversation than usual. “Saracen?”

“Ready,” said Saracen. He looked pale.

“Anton?”

Anton looked at Hopeless long and hard; and then he didn’t say anything at all. He just grunted disapproval, picked up Daisy from his corner, and left. Now the room felt emptier than before, and Valkyrie’s stomach hardened into a rock.

“Okay,” said Hopeless again, more softly, and let out a slow breath. The prayer rope moved fluidly through his hands until he found the cross. The whole room seemed like it was holding its breath as he started to speak — through the thoughtspeaker, but with his lips moving.

“In nómine Patris, et Fílii, et Spíritus Sancti. Amen. Credo in Deum Patrem omnipoténtem, Creatórem cæli et terræ …”

At first that was all they could hear. Then his voice got a little more distant, like attention was panning away from it, and other voices started to come through.

“Can’t _believe_ —”

“— not sure he isn’t mad —”

“Is that it? I mean, is he going to pray his way into — oh —” The thought cut off on an expletive and the fuzzy din of a lot of people talk-thinking all at once. Valkyrie caught someone paling and jerking back out of the corner of her eye — more than one person — but her attention was on Hopeless.

“— ohGodohGodohGodohGodohGod —”

“— story of the _century_ —”

“— can’t believe this —”

“— all a joke, right?”

“— _ohGodohGodohGodohGodohGod_ —”

“— going on? Did something —”

“— _damn_ all this _traffic_ —”

Snatches of voices came out of the crowd, inaudible and fragmented and not all in English or even in Irish, progressing away from the people in the barracks and sifting through the ones in the city. Valkyrie wondered how far Hopeless could reach, and then put that aside to think about swimming, and the cool water refreshing on her face and all around her, and everything dulled and peaceful and nice …

She snuck a glance sideways. The Taoiseach looked grey, but steady. A lot of the generals looked greyed, and less steady.

“— _what the hell is that —”_

_“—_ n- no, please —

_" — HELP! SOMEONE HELP ME!”_

That one came through loud and clear as a panicked shriek, and Hopeless’s face twisted; but it broke the spell of horrified silence in the room, and people sprang into action.

“Where —?” the Taoiseach began, and Saracen cut him off.

“St James’s,” he said. “The hospital’s under siege.”


	40. The vivid dead

Waking up in a hospital was an odd thing mostly because the sounds weren’t the same. The Hibernian didn’t use things like heart monitor machines.

They also didn’t tend to have people screaming in the distance, and that was what made Dexter drag himself up from the depths of unconsciousness. It wasn’t just sleep. He wouldn’t feel so kittenish if it was. But having to wake himself up from it was familiar, and so was the sound of someone whimpering nearby, and someone else trying to shush them.

“Wassat?” he mumbled, and forced his eyes open, because screaming and whimpering were not good and probably meant he was about to die. He needed to not die. He had too many years to make up to Rover to die.

“Shh,” someone said, soft and shaky over his head, and it took some moments for his blurry vision to resolve that into a woman’s face. A woman in a hospital uniform, even. Hospital was unusual. Hospital was _bad._

Whatever was beeping picked up, and the woman reached for his wrist, and Dexter followed that motion to see IV line and something attached to his finger —

Oh. That beeping was his.

He grunted. “Take it off.”

“I’m sorry, Mr Vex, I can’t do that,” said the nurse. _Possibly_ the nurse. Dexter was equal opportunity.

“Screaming’s not cos of operations, is it?” he asked, as succinctly as he could, and his words slurred a little less as he went on.

“No,” said the nurse. “It’s okay. We’re safe here.”

“Uh huh.”

Whoever was whimpering in the corner probably disagreed. Dexter took a minute to look around. He was in a room, a giant concrete room full of people; a lot of them were injured but not all of them, and those that were looked like they were weren’t _actively_ bleeding. Even accounting for that this was the worst place to be.

Dexter groaned. “Hate … having to be the hero.”

“Mr Vex —”

Too late. He pushed himself onto his elbows and kicked off the sheets, or tried. Mostly they tangled, and he continued to feel as if he’d gone ten rounds with Shudder without any protective gear. The nurse took his shoulder, and someone else took his _other_ shoulder, and he gripped her wrist.

“What’s outside?”

She swallowed hard. “Someone’s attacking the hospital.”

‘Someone’. Dexter dredged up his last memories of chasing that warlock, and decided it probably wasn’t them. Dredged back a little more. Temple. Necromancers. “Let me guess,” he said. “Zombies started pouring out of the morgue.”

Whoever had hold of his other shoulder made a twisted noise, and the nurse’s face went grey. Dexter nodded. “Yep. Necromancers. Worst. Totally, completely, the worst. Help me up.”

“Mr Vex —”

“I’ve got him,” said someone new, someone _familiar_ , and Dexter squinted up at Farley.

“What are you doing here?”

“I came to collect you,” said Farley, “and figured this is such a nice spot, I didn’t want to leave.”

“Valkyrie’s been a bad influence on you.”

Farley smiled, sort-of, and jerked his thumb toward a corner. “We’ve had a few bites. I’m the only one who knows how to handle them.”

Dexter frowned, and looked around a little more. “And you’ve been keeping them in the same room as patients?”

“I’ve been able to keep the infection from spreading,” said Farley, “and I put up some wards. But it’s the only place we had access to.”

Actually, it didn’t even look like an ordinary room … Dexter frowned up at the concrete ceiling. “Is this a _loading dock_?”

“We were trying to evacuate those who could be moved, sir,” said the nurse, “but …”

“But what?” Dexter grumbled, and tugged the heart monitor off his finger.

“There’s dinosaurs outside tearing up the street,” Farley said with a shrug, as if this was to be expected; as if he, somehow, was better adjusted than Dexter, because even _Dexter_ paused at that. And then he groaned.

“ _Necromancers._ ”

“Yep.”

“Where’s a better place to take these people?”

“We’d like to take them back into the wards,” said someone else, someone new, really new. She spoke with authority and was wearing a coat over business attire, so Dexter was going to guess hospital administration or a doctor. Or both. “We can properly quarantine the infected that way, and get people back to their rooms. Sir, you really cannot be getting up.”

Dexter kicked at the sheets and Farley helpfully pulled them away for him, and Dexter oozed off the bed, clinging to his IV stand when his knees shook mightily. “Too late.” The doctor sighed. “Have we heard from the Sanctuary?”

“Reception’s down,” said Farley. “Guess the dinosaurs knocked something over when they were resurrected.”

“Lovely,” said Dexter. “In that case, one of the others will probably show up soon, and very dramatically, right in the nick of time. Probably Skulduggery. Skulduggery’s good like that. What’s happening at the door?”

“We’ve got a barricade up using an ambulance, but we have no weapons,” said the doctor. “We’ve been keeping them back using fire extinguishers and gurneys, but the extinguishers are almost empty.”

“Contact with the rest of the hospital?”

The doctor nodded. “Landlines are still up. The rest of the hospital’s managed to get or keep people safe in their rooms and pack anyone waiting into the wards, but the people down here are all those who were at greatest risk — the ones we evacuate first in an emergency.”

Dexter looked down at the heart monitor, and took stock of how his limbs felt like jelly. “I need to stop getting injured.”

“You had a heart attack,” Farley told him, and Dexter barked a laugh.

“ _Me_? I had a heart attack? Come on.” He took a step and the IV stand wheeled, and three different people aborted leaps to help him. Farley was closest, and even he didn’t actually try to reach out. Smart kid. Grouse kept him for a reason.

“So the loading bay is cut off from the rest of the hospital, right?”

“Yes,” said the doctor, following him as he tried to manoeuvre around people. If Dexter was being honest, it wasn’t hard to keep up with him.

“Great,” said Dexter. “Point me at the door and I’ll get rid of them for you, and then I can go back to bed.”

The doctor looked at him dubiously. “Mr Vex, you’re about as energetic as —”

“A newborn kitten?” Dexter suggested.

“And not even half as cute,” she said.

“My husband’ll disagree with that, I’ll bet.” His IV stand got snagged on another gurney, and Farley threw up his hands.

“You could have just stayed on the bed and we could’ve wheeled you over.”

“See, that’s the kind of thing you say _before_ I start being stupid,” Dexter told him, and pointed shakily toward the double doors with the ambulance parked in front of it, through which he could hear something fleshy pounding against the other side. “Is that the door back in?”

“Yes,” said the doctor cautiously.

“Good,” said Dexter, and pushed magic to his bad hand. Even though he was barely on his feet, listing heavily, his magic had never failed him. It charged with a flash and a crackle, and the doctor jumped, and so did the nurse, and the handful of hospital staff and security staff who’d been watching the door. “Pull back the ambulance.”

“Ah,” said the doctor. “So _that’s_ what happened to your hand.”

Dexter favoured her with his most charmingly reckless grin. “I’m stupid like that.”

Someone hurriedly hopped in the ambulance’s open door, and the engine revved, and it reversed quickly away. The doors on the other side were locked and barred, but even with his vision waxing in and out Dexter could see the way the hinges were starting to twist.

“How much do you want to keep the doors?” Dexter asked.

“I’d rather keep the people who’d have to get close to unbar them,” she said.

“Sounds good to me.” Dexter poured more magic into his hand, then aimed as carefully as he could with his hand weaving, and fired. His beam took out the door, the zombies on the other side, and left a nice-sized crater on the far wall as well as the scent of people burning in the air. He tried to brace himself against the backlash and instead his foot slipped, and he found himself in Farley’s arms as he tried to prop Dexter back up again.

“Ugh,” Dexter muttered. “That hasn’t happened since — since —”

“Since the last time you hurt yourself?” Farley asked with Grouse’s asperity.

“I wasn’t throwing energy beams last time,” Dexter protested. “Just threatening to. Are there any more?”

Zombies weren’t exactly quiet, but there were too many people cursing and crying and generally screaming to hear whether any more were coming down the corridor. Dexter got his balance on the IV stand, but Farley kept his arm around Dexter’s back, and that was enough to see some brave soul, trembling madly, sidle closer to the door to peer into the corridor.

“There’s still some left,” she reported shakily. “They’re still in the hall.”

“Okay then.” Dexter nodded and his vision went sideways, and he decided to never do that again, swallowing down bile. “Farley, you got me?”

“Bring a wheelchair,” the doctor ordered, and Dexter brightened.

“A wheelchair. What a fantastic idea.”

“Are you all such idiots?” Farley asked.

“Just about,” Dexter admitted. “Just about.”

“God, no wonder Val’s the way she is,” Farley muttered.

“Yeah, but you like that about her,” said Dexter with a grin that was trying to slide all over his face. He contemplated winking, but that might have been a little too much under the circumstances. Anyway, Farley didn’t blush, because apparently working under Grouse made it impossible to be embarrassed. 

“Yeah, I do,” said Farley, “and also you’re still stupid. Sit down.”

“Yessir.” Dexter’s knees buckled and he fell into the armchair, blinking. It didn’t help his vision settle whatsoever, but it did help his stomach. He sat back and breathed while Farley moved his IV to the chair. By the time he opened his eyes again things were a little steadier, and he could definitely hear moaning down the hall.

“Doesn’t it just figure,” he said, “that a zombie apocalypse would begin just as I had a heart attack?”

“You’re all cursed,” Farley told him, and took hold of the wheelchair’s handlebars. “Okay. What’s the plan?”

“You and I are going vanguard,” said Dexter. “I’ll shoot things, and you stop us from getting eaten. When we reach the — what’s past here?”

“It’s a lobby area for the wing,” said the doctor. “But no one’s picking up at the desk, and the connection there went out not long ago so we don’t know how many people they got out of the waiting room, or if anyone’s still left.”

“So let’s assume there’s no one alive down there, then,” said Dexter. “How many security guards do we have?”

“Three.”

“Armed?”

“Not with firearms.”

“Give them IV stands,” Dexter said. “They’ll be following Farley and me.”

“Um.” One of the men in the security uniforms raised his hand, looking very green. “F- follow?”

“Well, it’s that or you stay here and wait to be eaten,” Dexter said, and thought better of trying to shrug casually. The guard went greener.

“Got it.”

“What about us?” demanded the doctor.

“Put the ambulance back across the —” Dexter looked again. There wasn’t really a door left. “— hole. The code will be ‘the swallow flies south for the winter’.”

“What do you expect to find when you get to the lobby?”

Dexter smiled at her and knew it was drunken and lopsided. He couldn’t do much about that. “Honestly, I’ll be _very surprised_ if one of my brothers hasn’t turned up by then.”

The doctor looked at him sidelong, like she wasn’t sure she should believe anything he said, except that there were still zombie moans coming from the hall and he had just blasted a bunch of them out of existence. “And who _are_ you, exactly?”

“We’re Dead Men,” said Dexter, and rested his head back. “Okay, Farley. Tally-ho.”

* * *

It turned out Fletcher had been to St James’s before. It also turned out that when he teleported Erskine and Digger there as the scout party, they wound up in the middle of a crowd of zombies. They were prepared for it, sort-of, in the sense that when Fletcher instinctively teleported away they didn’t go with him, and also had some guns to take care of things.

Well, Digger had some guns.

Erskine snapped his fingers and thrust fire at the nearest zombie, and it spun away wailing; and that drew attention of the second-nearest, so he shoved toward it with his gauntlet arm as a brace to give them some room. Digger took the chance to open up the wall and shove herself into it, leaving Erskine alone in a lobby full of zombies.

He threw fire and cut with air, and Fletcher reappeared in the space beside him, looking very sheepish and teleporting him behind the reception counter.

“Thanks so much,” Erskine muttered.

“I _said_ that’s what would happen!” Fletcher said defensively. Erskine snapped his fingers and this time hurled fire directly at the sprinklers in the ceiling overhead. They burst and water came pouring down, and he drew back his hand and brought all the warmth in the room with. Ice flashed across zombified bodies and the sound of moaning, shuffling and dead bodies moving ceased, very suddenly.

Erskine thrust out his hand and the snap of air made everything break in a cascade of iced-over flesh and breaking glass.

“Will that take care of them?” Fletcher asked nervously, wiping water off his face and his hair back.

“Probably not,” said Erskine grimly. “Bring in a team to start cleanup. We’ll need to burn what we can, and set up a defensive perimeter around the lobby.”

“You just broke all the windows,” Fletcher said doubtfully.

“That was on purpose,” said Erskine. “Now there’s room to set up guns on the windowsills to take care of anything outside. Get going.”

“I’m going, I’m going …” Fletcher vanished and this time Erskine heard a squeak which didn’t sound all that zombie-like, just barely audible over the sound of water pattering on every surface. He looked around, making sure nothing was moving in the lobby, and then ducked to look under the reception desk.

The two women under there flinched, and Erskine smiled as kindly as he could. “Hi, there. It’s okay. We’re the cavalry. Can you show me how to turn off the sprinkler system?”

“Um … y- yeah.”

They crawled out, very slowly, and the elder of the two stumbled shakily toward a panel on the wall nearby. The other jumped a solid foot in the air as Digger emerged from the wall.

“Taken care of ’em already, yeah?” she asked, glancing over the lobby.

“Yes and no,” said Erskine. “Some of them will start moving again once they de-thaw, so we’d better make sure they’re no longer a threat before that happens.”

“Oh, I can help with that,” said Dexter cheerfully, and Erskine’s chest loosened so fast that his knees shook with the surge of relief.

“It’s about time you did something useful,” he said as he turned, already smiling; and he couldn’t keep his smile from faltering when he saw Dexter. He wasn’t standing, leaning against a wall or door like Erskine subconsciously expected, not looking like a chiselled Adonis of war. Instead he was slumped in a wheelchair, looking as if he could hardly keep his head up, with an IV in his wrist and a sick kind of smile to match the dazed pain in his eyes. His bad hand was ungloved, for once, and it was still smoking, so he’d been using it. It looked worse than Erskine remembered.

“Hey,” Dexter protested. “I just came from a loading bay full of people, thanks very much. I’ve cleared the path for you.”

“Yeah, and at what cost,” Erskine said, and couldn’t find his smile again. His heart pounded. “Stay in the hall for a minute, will you? We’re getting the sprinklers turned off.”

“No problem,” said Farley, leaning on the back of the wheelchair. Behind him, Erskine saw a couple of security guards with IV poles in their hands, looking very nervous and wide-eyed.

“He’s been a right tyrant,” said Dexter. “Hey, Erskine? You can stop looking at me like I’m gonna die any second now.”

Oh, fine. Erskine found a smile from somewhere and put it on his face. “I can stop looking at you any second or you’re going to die any second?”

“Both,” said Dexter. “Either.” He rested his head back and let out a long sigh. “I’m getting too old for this.”

“We all are, Vex,” said Erskine grimly just as the sprinklers shut off. “We all are.” He turned to Digger, who looked amused. “What did you find?”

“Morgue’s a den,” she said succinctly, “and it ain’t far from here, should be able to come in the back wall no worries. Looks like there’s a hall or two cut off from here to the wing, but we oughta be able to take those too. Connecting to the rest of the hospital, though — the morgue’s emptied into every bloody room from here to the other end of the block.”

“Then we’ll prioritise clearing this part of the hospital and use it as the base for reclaiming the rest,” said Erskine briskly. “You said there’s a loading bay?”

“Yep,” said Farley, “and there were a couple of dinos out there half an hour ago, so we figured we’d better stay put. Well, the doc in charge figured.”

Erskine nodded. “Good. I’ll want to talk to them. We’ll clean up the lobby and see about getting the halls clear. Those people in the loading dock — how many are patients?”

“Most of them,” said Farley. “Some are infected, I’ve got them behind wards.”

“Keep them there. We’ll move them last, and see about opening up the exit so the hospital can start receiving casualties.”

Before Erskine had finished speaking, the mostly-empty lobby was suddenly full of Fletcher and one of the squads the Taoiseach’s military advisors had assigned. They took a moment to clear the lobby, all efficiency and bristling with vests and weapons.

“Burn them,” said Erskine, pointing at the bodies. “They’re all zombies. Time to put your crash course to work.”

It had been the quickest, dirtiest one-oh-one on zombie-killing Erskine had ever given. To their credit, the soldiers leap to act, clearing the lobby with gloves and masks and finding a place outside where they can stack the corpses to burn.

“Digger,” said Erskine, glancing toward her. “Do a more in-depth run of the halls and the ground. We’re going to need the best place for the sigil-circle, or barring that, the most safely convenient location. We’ll be wanting a map — _is_ there a map?”

He directed this at the woman still standing nearby, who jumped at being addressed; and though her throat worked no sounds came out, so she just nodded and went to the desk to start looking through the papers. She came back with trembling hands and a fold-out pamphlet that Digger took and used to salute.

“Onnit. I’ll be on line one if you need me, but don’t need me. Underground’s a bugger for transmissions. See if I can’t leave some blocks around to get in the zombies’ way, too.”

“Thanks,” said Erskine even as she turned and pushed into the wall, leaving only a crack behind. The woman, probably the receptionist, squeaked again. Erskine smiled at her, and the one standing by the wall with very wide eyes. “Are either of you hurt?” She shook her head — they both shook their heads. “Good. We’re going to need both of you, okay? These guys here —” He nodded toward the squad. “— are going to make sure the lobby’s safe, and they’re going to need to know everything they can about the hospital. Do you think you can help them out?”

The younger of the two nodded. The elder took a deep breath and answered, “Yes.”

“Good.” Erskine patted the woman in front of him on the shoulder with his non-gauntlet hand, which wasn’t his most reassuring, but it was the best he had right now. Hopeless was — doing something probably very stupid, and all of them were letting him, and had forced Valkyrie to do it _for_ them —

_On your feet, Ravel, and don’t stop moving._

He went to Dexter, his stride purposeful and set, and ordered: “Take me to the loading bay and whoever’s in charge.”

“What am I, chopped liver?” Dexter demanded, and Erskine cracked a grin.

“Let me put it this way, Dex: there’s no _way_ you can satisfy Larrikin looking the way you do, so go back to bed and try again.”

“Mean,” Dex accused, but he was grinning and it didn’t seem like the forced grin he’d been using the past couple of days either; but then again, Erskine wasn’t totally sure Dexter was aware of what was going on.

It didn’t matter. Farley rolled his eyes and turned the wheelchair, pushing it ahead of Erskine and the security guards as he led the way to the loading bay.


	41. The Sanctuary of Ireland

“How many?” Guild demanded brusquely of Tipstaff, and the Administrator didn’t even have to consult the clipboard he seemed to keep on his person at all times.

“Seven, Elder Guild,” said Tipstaff. “Two more cleavers have reported debilitating injuries and had to remove themselves from the cordon. They’ve been sent to the Hibernian Cinema. Macha Morrígna reports that there have been no successful incursions there, and has joined Elder Bliss at the Government Buildings.”

“There’s no morgue at the Hibernian like there is at the hospital,” said Guild. “Have someone take them to the barracks for assignment — Renn if possible, one of the necromancers if not. The more sorcerers we get into the front-lines, the better.”

Someone not Guild. He could hold his own, but he was far better like this — working behind the scenes. Meritorious had known that, during the war. It was why he’d made use of the Exigency Mages.

It still left a bitter taste in Guild’s mouth that he was taking a backseat to mortals. There was nothing they knew about fighting other sorcerers — let alone sorcerers like the necromancers, or like Vile.

Tipstaff left to report to the circle that had been drawn in a room down the hall. Someone had been put into it to pass messages — Guild didn’t know her name, but she was someone who’d caught the tail end of the war and had a solid enough grasp of urgency and action. The sigil circle was a flexible piece of magic that made him feel bitter again. Every Sanctuary had something like that, of course, to communicate with other Sanctuaries, but they encompassed rooms, as much for the number of sigils required as the need for privacy.

This was just a circle, and seemingly needed nothing else.

Guild looked around Hopeless’s empty office, growled something impatient and inarticulate to himself, and left to go to his own. If he didn’t have a good reason to be in there, like having a lot of people to give orders to, it wasn’t a good idea to get too comfortable in the Grand Mage’s. The man wouldn’t even _say_ anything about it, just look at Guild in that way that made him aware of his flaws and have to sit in them. That was, possibly, the most irritating part about it.

Too much on his plate — Guild wasn’t sure he believed it or not, or which one he preferred. To disbelieve it was to set Hopeless up as something infallible, a deity; to believe it was to trust him more than Guild was already grudgingly doing, and to take the risk that Hopeless had a ploy in mind.

Instead he did neither, and consoled himself with the fact that Hopeless had given him a task he hadn’t even told the Dead Men about. To protect them from the tribulations of leadership, of course — but Guild ignored that part.

The phone rang as Guild entered the office, the landline on the desk which had been installed sometime several decades ago and was, these days, used mostly for internal Sanctuary communications, if at all. Today, landlines were more helpful than mobile service.

But if someone was calling him here when he’d spent all morning in the Grand Mage’s office …

He picked it up and growled, “What?”

“Sir,” said someone on the other end, sounding frazzled the way everyone in the Sanctuary was frazzled. The veterans were the ones who weren’t showing it. “Grand Mage Bisahalani is trying to contact you.”

There was a moment Guild froze. It was only a moment: long enough to kick his mind from where he was, the urban war happening overhead, to what had been said about Bisahalani and Tesseract, and what Guild himself had been doing. Hopeless had to have known Guild was contacting other Grand Mages; he’d been doing it from the Sanctuary for God’s sake, but he hadn’t stopped Guild, or tried to intervene.

Bisahalani had not been on his list. Guild wondered if that would surprise the Dead Men, to know that; but Guild wasn’t a fool. Their ambitions were too similar, and Guild knew men like Bisahalani too well, to ever trust him with something like the Grand Mage’s secret. He was one, after all.

Admitting that was like admitting he understood why Hopeless hadn’t said anything to him.

“Sir?”

“Put him through,” said Guild neutrally. “Record it. Don’t listen.” No doubt Bisahalani would prefer they used the hologram suite, but Guild had no intention of opening himself up like that, or sealing himself away in a part of the building that would cut him off from information regarding the rest. 

It took a moment. It always took a moment, to sync up the systems, and Guild used that time to put the phone on speaker and move around his office, ensure he had the map reflecting the Taoiseach’s within easy reach. Just outside, he could hear Rue’s voice speaking through the circle, and the woman in charge of it distributing that information. No details — but it was enough to know that plans were being enacted.

“Elder Guild,” said Bisahalani as Tipstaff came to the door with that report, and he said nothing as he gave Guild a sheet of paper and saw himself out, closing the door. Guild didn’t activate the privacy sigils. He needed to know what was happening outside.

“Grand Mage Bisahalani,” said Guild, sounding short and terse because _he_ was short and terse, and there was nothing about this conversation that seemed normal. “The Grand Mage isn’t here.”

_Grand Mage Bisahalani wants to speak with you,_ the dispatcher had said. With Guild, not with Hopeless.

“I think we both find that a relief,” said Bisahalani. “Let me get to the point of things, Thurid: I’m aware of the conditions under which you’re working. I’m aware of your Grand Mage’s magic.”

So it was to be that kind of conversation, then. Guild kept sorting through his papers. “Do you.”

Now Bisahalani sounded a bit annoyed. “Come now, I think we’re both too much men of the world to expect an answer to something so leading.”

Guild barked a laugh. “Bisahalani, if you don’t think Hopeless already knows, you don’t really understand how he works.”

He didn’t bring up Tesseract. He didn’t expect Bisahalani to, either. That would reveal too many cards.

“I’m calling to make you an offer, Thurid,” said Bisahalani. “You and I fought together; I’m aware of your processes, as you’re aware of mine.”

“And what offer is that?”

He wouldn’t be so stupid, would he? He had to know the Sanctuary would be recording this —

But if he was expecting Guild to fall into line, Guild realised, then he had no reason not to be stupid. Or he was hoping to incriminate Guild himself, but there was nothing he would gain from turning them against each other using Guild as a scapegoat, so that was unlikely.

Either Bisahalani was very arrogant, or very desperate; and it was always hard to tell, with Bisahalani. It was hard to tell the stakes with a man who would walk outside alone to bluff an army, just like it was hard to tell the stakes with a man who knew what he was thinking at any given time.

It was an … interesting comparison. Once, Guild would have been warier of Bisahalani than he was of Meritorious’s shadow.

“I know you were hoping to take the position of Grand Mage,” said Bisahalani. So he _was_ going to go there, and Guild still didn’t know whether it was bluff or desperation.

“That wasn’t a secret,” said Guild sourly, because it still rankled him, the way that had played out; still rankled him, most of all, that he didn’t know whether it played that way due to Hopeless’s conscious manipulation or in spite of it.

“I’m willing to give you the support of the American Sanctuary,” said Bisahalani.

“You’re talking treason,” said Guild.

“I’m speaking of pragmatics,” corrected Bisahalani. “Soon, very soon, I will have evidence that your Grand Mage has been messing with the Pact, and not only that, but messing with the Pact on US soil.”

Guild frowned. “What the hell are you talking about?”

He genuinely didn’t know — Hopeless was the one who wouldn’t be so stupid, in that case; and anyway, he had barely left the Sanctuary for months, let alone Ireland. But —

The memory came back to him as Bisahalani was speaking. “Saracen Rue was spotted at the White House a few days ago. Do you really think a Dead Man was there on a whim? Especially given who leads them?”

“The Dead Men don’t have a leader,” said Guild. Corrival Deuce was their _general_ — but that was a long time ago, and that had been mostly to manage the Dead Men in conjunction with other forces. Anyway, Corrival Deuce hadn’t lived in Ireland for years. The Dead Men were self-driving. They didn’t need a leader.

“But when Hopeless speaks, they listen,” said Bisahalani, “for a given definition of _speak_ these days, of course.”

In the privacy of his own office, Guild rolled his eyes, and it was a surprise, because he would have made a remark like that — he could practically hear it in his own voice. Like this, a foreign Grand Mage to an Irish Elder, it wasn’t just in bad taste. It was poor form.

Bisahalani had never cared about poor form. The odd thing was that neither had Guild. This — this shouldn't rankle; but it did.

“Why are you calling, Grand Mage?” Guild demanded. “A courtesy call, to warn me you’re going to take down the Irish Grand Mage, that if I align my stars with yours I can escape the carnage and come out on top?”

“Until Hopeless gets back to the Sanctuary, you have essentially free rein,” said Bisahalani. “Given I’m told there’s a crisis currently occurring, that could be all the time you need.”

"To betray Ireland," said Guild.

"To _save_ Ireland," Bisahalani corrected. "Don't be absurd, Thurid, Ireland has been in danger since before Hopeless became Grand Mage. Even Mevolent was afraid of the man."

"And you?" Guild said, scorn in his voice.

"No," said Bisahalani coldly. "Unlike Mevolent, I don't seek to break someone to prove his lack of godliness. I simply ensure they are removed, and therefore the threat is gone."

"But you haven't," Guild said.

"It's only a matter of time."

Guild almost snorted, and swallowed it before it happened. There was information arising from this conversation, but nothing he didn't already know. "What, exactly, do you want me to do, Bisahalani?"

"Simply lead," said Bisahalani. "The Dead Men are out of the Sanctuary, handling matters elsewhere. When the current crisis is over, I'll bring evidence regarding Hopeless's treason to the Grand Mages of sympathetic nations. It will be difficult to convince anyone to intervene in another Sanctuary's running, but if you, Thurid, request and support our intervention, Hopeless will be removed from office and a new Grand Mage will be needed."

Guild listened. He listened and for some brief moments he contemplated going along with this, to gather information —

But that was the point of forcing him to choose now. There was no better time than now; if Guild wanted to move, he needed to move immediately, or the opportunity would be lost. Bisahalani had picked the timing to ensure there was no way of pretending to agree only to gather intelligence. Guild would have to _commit_.

Then he realised he was thinking in terms of subterfuge, of intelligence; that the idea of joining Bisahalani in truth wasn’t even a blip on his radar. Maybe it was something he would have considered, a few years ago; maybe it would have seemed like the best of a bad situation. Guild liked to think he would have seen through Bisahalani's machinations even then, that he would have known Bisahalani would have used him as a scapegoat and gathered up debts.

But he couldn't be sure. Once upon a time, the argument that he was protecting Ireland by letting the American Sanctuary interfere in Ireland's governing might have held weight. Now it sounded farcical, and Guild could not have said what about it did, or when it became like that.

Maybe it was because he had another option he, himself was pursuing. Maybe it was because Bisahalani was assuming Guild would be just that desperate to be out from under Hopeless's thumb. Maybe it was just because when Guild tried to imagine himself handling what Hopeless was now handling, he could not imagine a way things would come out a victory — only, at _best_ , the lesser of two evils.

Maybe it was because last year Hopeless had called him to his office, and sealed it with sigils, and wearily asked for Guild’s help on a matter he didn’t want to bother the Dead Men with, and Guild had delivered.

Delivered without the loss of life that would have made things so much simpler, in fact. Had it been Guild’s choice, he would have killed this Argeddion fellow while he was caged and be done with it. Instead Guild had ensured that he, and his wardens, were delivered into the hands of an anonymous group Hopeless had all but confirmed belonged to Ravel’s Tír.

Guild scowled into his empty office. He was becoming downright philosophical, and he was _certainly_ blaming that on the mind-reader. He was definitely _not_ making this choice because Hopeless had asked for _his_ help, over the Dead Men’s. Definitely not.

"Are we in agreement, Thurid?" asked Bisahalani, more impatiently.

"No," said Guild, "we're not. You talk about Ireland as if you know what we're dealing with, and you don't. Ireland's sovereignty is ours, not yours, and I won't be the one who turns it over to you for the sake of a becoming a puppet." The more he spoke, the more Bisahalani's gall sank in, and anger rose hard and fast in Guild's chest. "For God's _sake_ , Bisahalani, did you really think I'd be so stupid, so desperate, as to throw over _Ireland_ just for the sake of calling myself the Grand Mage?! During the war I did the jobs no one else could do, and that's what I would have done with the Grand Mage's title — for Ireland. Nothing more, nothing less."

"Yes, those _jobs_ ," said Bisahalani, very coldly. "How much does Hopeless know about those, I wonder?"

"Everything," said Guild, and wondered at the fierce vindication when there was no response. Bisahalani had been keeping his distance — there was no possible way he could know what it was, to be this close to a mind-reader. There was no possible way to explain the certainty that came with knowing his secrets were out, and nothing would be done with them. Hopeless had promised, and he'd kept to his bargain, despite numerous opportunities to do otherwise.

When did Guild learn to _trust_ the man? Was this how Bespoke had felt, talking to him after Tesseract's first attempt to assassinate Hopeless? Was this how the Dead Men felt, secure in the knowledge that their secrets were safe, that there was no threat that would work?

It was an uncomfortable feeling, and made Guild feel more irritable still.

"I see," said Bisahalani, and this time he sounded downright icy. "Then I'll leap straight to the stick. Guild, I know that Vile's armour has risen, if not Vile himself. If Ireland cannot contain this problem, I have taken measures to ensure they'll extend no further than Ireland."

For a moment Guild said nothing; then he barked a laugh. "Sounds like Rue's not the only one with a shoe in at the White House." The pause sounded like a breath of a reaction being bitten off. "We already know about the nuclear warhead," said Guild coldly. "If that's what you'll do just to kill a mind-reader —"

"To kill Vile," Bisahalani corrected.

"To kill them both at once, then, two birds with one stone," said Guild impatiently. "Tesseract kept failing, and if Vile's armour doesn't manage it, you'll murder the entire city of Dublin just to be rid of Hopeless, isn't that it? No matter who might or might not win, you do. But you're waiting, because you're not sure even a bomb will kill Vile, and if the Dead Men manage it — well, you can still drop the bomb and say you didn't know, you were just responding to a _threat._ None of the other Grand Mages would question your use of mortal instruments of war. Hell, if the mortal government took a political blow for it, it would only mean your star rises."

"There are changes occurring, Thurid," said Bisahalani low and tight and restraining anger, "about which you know nothing —"

"You're talking about Department X," said Guild. "You're talking about the fact that more and more mortals know about magic, somehow, and suddenly the Pact doesn't mean as much as you thought it did. You're not sure when that happened, but you know it's happening now, and you know it's because of the Dead Men."

Bisahalani cut off again; and it wasn't vindicating this time. This time, it filled Guild with an icy, righteous kind of anger, because Bisahalani had assumed Guild wouldn't know, that the _Dead Men_ wouldn't have told him —

And he'd almost been right. Almost.

"In fact," Guild continued, "there are things occurring about which _you_ know nothing."

"Such as?" Bisahalani snapped.

"Mevolent's return," said Guild simply, and this time the silence was one belonging to a man who couldn't tell whether Guild was the one bluffing. "This isn't a trick," Guild added. "We are even now tracking people who were once his. There have been movements."

"There are always movements," said Bisahalani.

"There have been visions identifying him."

"Mevolent is dead," said Bisahalani coldly, "and this is a poor farce —"

"Don't be stupid, Bisahalani," Guild snapped. "As if I would _tell_ you this, when the risk is that it would increase your ire, if I was joking. You're thinking it's even more important to take Ireland; you're thinking that if we're making up stories, failing so badly, Ireland would be better off in your hands. If Mevolent has returned, the risk he brings goes beyond anything Ireland alone can present. Do not forget it took all the world's sorcerers to stop him."

"And I suppose your Grand Mage knows you're telling me this?" said Bisahalani with notes of impatience and snideness at once.

"He will," said Guild, "when we're in close enough proximity again. Whether he agrees or not — I don't know, and I don't much care." Much. "Ireland is a threat only to you, in your overly-honed sense of danger. Mevolent is a very real threat to everyone. Think on _that_ for a while, and I'll call you back after this current crisis is over."

He hung up the phone, more gently than he strictly wished, and got to his feet to head for the door, grinding his teeth and cursing Bisahalani, the Dead Men, and Hopeless especially, in no particular order.

He came out of his office like a freight train and made a bee-line for the circle. “Contact the barracks,” he barked, and the Sanctuary official inside the circle jumped. “Now!”

“Hello, the barracks, this is the Sanctuary,” said the woman, sounding shaken.

_“Hello, the Sanctuary, this is the barracks,”_ said Rue on the other end. _“Report.”_

“Renato Bisahalani just called me with an offer,” said Guild, harried and terse. “He’s definitely going to be the one behind the nuclear warhead, and just stopping Death might not stop _him_ , if he thinks he can get away with it.”

The Sanctuary official paled.

_“Understood,”_ said Rue. _“Can you give us_ —”

The rest of his reply was lost in the explosion that ripped through the Sanctuary and flung Guild, and everyone else, to the floor in a blast of fire and debris.


	42. Fall down

“Sanctuary? Come in, Sanctuary — _damn_ it —”

“What’s happened?” Valkyrie demanded, getting to her feet. Her heart was almost in her throat. Everyone in the room had heard Guild — everyone — and then suddenly …

“I don’t know,” said Saracen shortly, and then shifted to signing, ‘I’m spreading myself thin, here, and so is Hopeless.’

“What did he say?” asked the Taoiseach.

“He said they’re spread thin,” said Valkyrie, watching Saracen’s fingers even as Hopeless’s thoughtspeaker started screaming.

“— _oh my God what is that_ —”

_“HELP! SOMEONE HELP ME!”_

“St Patrick’s Park,” said Saracen verbally almost on the heels of the words, and the voices from Hopeless’s thoughtspeaker faded into increasingly familiar static, like Hopeless’s attention was zooming from one point of the city to another.

“He says someone’s attacked the Sanctuary,” said Valkyrie, “but they didn’t notice it in time because Hopeless is tagging to disbelief and panic, and most of those are dinosaur-or zombie-related.”

And there were a _lot_ of those, and by this point Saracen was handling close to a half-dozen different circles. They could only hear the ones he activated aloud — but that didn’t mean all the others weren’t reporting in, and that was on top of him ‘just knowing’ whatever it was Hopeless was reading.

Saracen’s fingers must have been getting tired. Valkyrie admired the way he seemed to be able to hold two conversations at once, with his mouth and his hands, and also never wanted to have to learn how to do that. Ever.

“Someone attacked the Sanctuary and it _wasn’t_ the dinosaurs?” asked the Taoiseach, and Valkyrie shrugged, and sank back down into her chair.

“I guess.”

Her mum wouldn’t have been there, she reminded herself and her pounding heart. Mum was at Corrival’s, well out of Dublin’s centre. She was fine. She and Dad were fine, and so was Alison.

She still felt sick.

The Taoiseach asked, “Would it have been this — Bisahalani fellow?”

“Doubtful,” said Skulduggery. “He’s a Grand Mage; he wouldn’t call Guild with an offer and then invade within a few minutes. No, this is a matter of — unfortunate timing.”

“Okay.” The Taoiseach blew out his breath, and looked at Valkyrie, and then said a little more gently, “Is there anything we can do?” 

“ _HOLY F—”_

“Inn’s Quay,” said Saracen just as there was the sound of grinding metal colliding, and static blurred the sound to something else.

“That’s over the Liffey,” said someone worriedly.

“Dinosaurs have big feet,” said Skulduggery-or-Wreath.

“We need to stop that,” said the Taoiseach, and grimaced. “Add it to the list.” He turned to his generals. “We can’t use helicopters to spy on Death, but can we use them to force the — dinosaurs back over the river?”

“On your order, sir,” said one of the generals, “we have some aircraft with air-to-surface weaponry prepping now. We’re also trying to figure out how to get some armoured vehicles into the streets, but with so many people on the roads we’re having logistical problems.”

“It’s midday at the end of the week,” said the Taoiseach grimly. “Where are we on evacuations?”

“We’ve got a secondary ten-block cordon around the Government Buildings and are in the process of advising everyone in that area to stay inside through emergency radio and door-knocks,” said Hammond. “There are too many people to evacuate, and too many zombies on the street attacking at will to risk it. Same for a ten-block radius around the hospital, and a five-block radius around any other large locations which might be housing corpses or skeletons. So far smaller instances of zombie outbreaks have been contained. Dinosaurs have stepped over our cordons and we’ve let them, but we’re tracking them with aerial support. Sir, as soon as we can get a reliable communications up, I strongly advise a conference.”

“Our allies’ Sanctuary just came under attack,” said the Taoiseach, “which means that I’m not leaving here until I’m sure _both_ layers of Dublin have leadership. Mr Rue, can you contact Elder Bliss?”

“St Stephen’s Green, hello?”

_“Barracks, hello,”_ said whoever was in the circle at the Stephen’s Green cordon, near the Government Buildings. _“We read you.”_

"The Sanctuary’s been attacked and is out of communication,” said Saracen. “Tell Bliss and report back what he says. Priority one.”

_“Understood. St Stephen’s out.”_

_“Hey! What are you — huh?”_

Valkyrie winced as the man’s thought cut off abruptly rather than just vanishing into static. Hopeless flinched, the movement of his lips briefly faltering before he resumed the prayer none of them could hear. Valkyrie really hoped it was helping.

“Does he —” the Taoiseach began, sounding horrified, but like he was trying very hard to control it.

“Yes,” Valkyrie said.

“He feels them die?” Now the Taoiseach just sounded sick.

“Every single time,” said Saracen simply. “St Stephen’s Green, hello.”

_“Barracks, hello,”_ said Bliss, sounding as if he was standing just outside of the circle, only he wasn’t; and Hopeless’s thoughtspeaker spun away. _“Macha Morrígna_ _will take a squad of cleavers back to the Sanctuary and report through their circle within twenty minutes.”_

“Understood,” said Saracen, “Barracks out. I hear you, Erskine. St James, hello.”

_"Barracks, hello, and also no one likes a show-off, Saracen,”_ said Erskine.

“I don’t know, everyone likes Hopeless a whole lot right now,” said Valkyrie, and Saracen’s mouth twitched. Through the circle, Erskine laughed.

_“St James’s, reporting in. We’ve got a full wing of the hospital under control. A number of the worst patients were taken to the loading bay for evacuation, but they’re being returned to their rooms and we’ll see what we can do about access. Is there anything —”_

Static. _“What else can we do?! We need to get this man into the hospital, no matter what —”_

“Sounds like there’s something blocking the road,” said Saracen.

“How can he tell?” the Taoiseach whispered to Valkyrie, and it sounded like a question that’s been brewing for a while. Valkyrie didn’t look over, because she was watching Saracen’s strained eyes.

“He just knows things,” she said simply. “And when Hopeless is looking at those things, he can ‘just know’ what Hopeless is looking at.”

She was pretty sure that was what was happening, anyway, even though she couldn’t be sure — she didn’t know what Saracen’s magic was. Whatever it was, right now it made the two of them together terrifying and amazing. Whenever Hopeless heard something, Saracen knew exactly what it was and what would happen there.

Bit by bit, the map on the wall where conflict zones were marked were getting filled in, and panicked riots were being labelled. Bit by bit, the places where they could put people to organise command centres were getting listed. Now the chaos seemed to be at least trackable, if not constrained.

She glanced over. Someone had already flagged the Waxworks Museum. Even as she watched, two of the generals were giving orders to send some kind of division to go to the hospital and clear the road. She didn’t understand half the words, but it was happening.

It was funny, Valkyrie thought, how Farley had said he wanted to be in the field, like her — but here she was behind walls and people, and Farley was probably still at the hospital. She wasn’t sure whether to hope he’d gotten out with Dexter or not — the streets weren’t exactly safe. Every now and then the sound of panic came through Hopeless’s thoughtspeaker, and it was nothing else: half the locations Saracen’s mentioned have been riots rather than attacks.

“— deploying a division to clear the road and hold the area,” Saracen was saying. “Can your people in the lobby hold out?”

_“We’ll manage,”_ said Erskine. _“By the way —”_

Saracen groaned. “ _Don’t_ tell me —”

_“Dexter says he was chasing a warlock out of the Temple’s Shadow Furnace when he collapsed. Just thought I’d better pass that one up to people with better brains than me. Or no brains, as the case may be.”_

“A warlock in the Temple?” Skulduggery murmured, but Valkyrie couldn’t tell whether it was him or Wreath.

“I hate you,” said Saracen, “so much. Barracks out.”

“Were any of the necromancers working with the warlocks?” Valkyrie asked.

“No,” said Wreath, and it had to be Wreath, because he sounded frowny and displeased. “And _that_ , I would have heard about. Necromancers and warlocks are somewhat incompatible — we both rely on the same resource.”

Skulduggery’s neck-bones snicked. “You mean souls.”

“Yes,” said Wreath. “I mean souls. There’s one man, Bison Dragonclaw, who wouldn’t be opposed to hiring them for his dirty work, but I see no reason for him to do that. Craven’s attentions have been turned inward, not out, and Dragonclaw would have moved on his command.”

“Sorry,” said the Taoiseach, “there’s a man out there called _Bison Dragonclaw_?”

“Not every sorcerer has our sense of taste and meaning,” said Skulduggery-or-Wreath. “I was under the impression warlocks were extinct?”

Skulduggery. Definitely Skulduggery. He sounded miffed.

“So was I,” said Wreath, “but since they evidently aren’t, let’s work with what we have —”

Out in the hall there came the sound of someone shouting. Valkyrie leapt to her feet and Tesseract moved to loom over Hopeless’s seat with his long arm-range, and Skulduggery pushed the Taoiseach to the back of the room even as everyone in a military uniform reached for weapons.

The door slammed open and the guard on the other side looked surprised, glancing around. “Where did —”

“What —?” someone started to ask, and Valkyrie spotted the movement on the floor and snapped her hand, and the mouse shot up into the air —

And grew and grew and the skinchanger’s feet slammed to the floor, her weight breaking through the thin layer of air Valkyrie was using to keep her up. “Warlocks!” said the woman, absolutely naked and full of nervous energy as she moved toward them. “Warlocks in the Sanctuary!”

“Speaking of,” muttered Skulduggery-or-Wreath while Valkyrie cursed. Saracen cursed too, but he used his hands, so no one noticed, and Valkyrie ignored him to pull off her jacket to hand to the woman. She was tiny; the jacket might be too big. Probably a good thing in this instance.

“Thanks,” said the skinchanger, taking it and pulling it around herself with short jerky motions. “Didn’t think there was time to explain things to the mortals. Renn just brought a bunch of us over as they attacked.”

“Who else is here?” Skulduggery asked.

“Quick, Scrutinous, The five Four Elementals,” said the skinchanger, fast and clear, like someone who’d had to report like this a _lot_. “Couple of the Mayburys were waiting on a couple more. Elder Guild sent out the word. I told Renn to sit down until I could report in, in case you need someone at his next stop.”

“Have Scrutinous join the Taoiseach’s public relations team,” said Skulduggery. “All of the Four Elementals can go to Fletcher’s next stop and report to Bliss. You and Quick can go with; we have sigil teams out there but only three of five have reported clearing and stabilising their locations, and Fletcher can’t reliably find the others.”

There was a brief and awkward pause, and then Skulduggery’s head jerked. “Running roughshod again,” said probably-Wreath, and Skulduggery’s head jerked again.

“Ah, of course,” said Skulduggery, and he turned to the Taoiseach. “Scrutinous is on the Sanctuary’s public relations team. He’s a Sensitive — a psychic. He can, shall we say, make people forget — so if there’s anyone you’d prefer not to remember this, he’s the man you want. The five Four Elementals are, as the name suggests, Elementals, and will be best placed on the front lines most in need of some heavy-duty magic. Quick and Ms Onrunner here —” The skinchanger lit up with a beaming grin. “— are scouts. Quick is a chameleon, Onrunner’s a skinchanger.”

“Got it,” said the Taoiseach, sounding a little frazzled. “Put them where you just said, then.”

“St Stephen’s Green, come in,” said Saracen. “Reinforcements incoming to you — all five of the Four Elementals, Onrunner and Quick. Warlocks at the Sanctuary.”

_“Barracks, understood.”_

“Five Four Elementals?” the Taoiseach mouthed at Valkyrie, and Valkyrie swallowed the urge to burst into giggles and nodded.

“Thanks, love,” said Onrunner, handing Valkyrie her jacket. “It’ll just be in my way outside.” She saluted, a fast two-fingered thing that reminded Valkyrie of Rover. “Good working with the Dead Men again. Like old times, yeah?”

She turned into a dog and trotted downstairs with her tail in the air, shouldering past a breathless assistant rushing in to thrust a note at Hammond.

“Old times?” Valkyrie wondered, and Skulduggery’s skull turned toward her with a creak.

“Saba Onrunner was a scout during the war,” he said. “So was Reynard Quick. They both served under Corrival, alongside the rest of us.”

“Ohhh.” Valkyrie nodded. “So they’re both totally in love with all eight of you, right? Got it.” She smiled sunnily and unrepentantly at Skulduggery’s permanent grin while Hopeless’s thoughtspeaker staticked with voices, and Saracen murmured a non-lethal update to the attentive assistants in charge of the map.

Before Skulduggery could respond, Hammond looked up and said, “There are necromancers down below. They’re led by a man named Cleric Baritone.”

“Ah,” said Skulduggery-or-Wreath. “Those would be the necromancers from Italy. The Italians can be sent to support zones which need backup, but I would very much like to see Adrien for a few minutes.”

“Why?” Valkyrie demanded, and Skulduggery’s skull turned slowly toward her.

“Because if anyone would know what a warlock was doing in the Temple, it would be Adrien Baritone. He and I used to work together, before he decided I was his saviour. He was, shall we say, an information broker.”

Definitely Wreath, then.

“Make it fast,” said Saracen, sounding terse and bitter and like, in that moment, he hated everything. His fingers moved. ‘Descry —’

It was all he managed before Hopeless let out a quiet gasp and shuddered, and very suddenly went limp in his chair. The prayer-rope slid out of his hands, the thoughtspeaker went dead, and Valkyrie leapt toward him with the curse Erskine had used just an hour before. Tesseract was already there, leaning over him in a way that made Valkyrie's heart leap and Saracen jerk.

"Get away," she said sharply, and Tesseract straightened and gave her an unreadable look past his serial-killer's mask.

“He’s alive,” said Tesseract, and straightened to give Valkyrie room.

"What just happened?" the Taoiseach demanded.

"He's overused his magic," said Skulduggery with a deep sigh. "Hopeless always did push things far past his limits."

"Look who's talking," said Valkyrie angrily, picking the rosary out of Hopeless's lap and shaking his shoulder, feeling useless and helpless. He was still breathing, at least, so that was something; but of _course_ he would be breathing, it wasn't like overusing his magic was like a ... _a heart attack_ or something. His eyes were still tight, though, so she tugged the thoughtspeaker out of his temple and his face relaxed a little more.

"What does he need?" the Taoiseach was asking. "We can call up a medic."

"Time and rest," said Skulduggery. "It's likely a migraine — a quiet dark room will be best. Preferably out of mind-shot of anyone, but that might be difficult under the circumstances, and we’re liable to need him when he wakes up."

"Will he be able to function?" someone asked, and Saracen's laugh was brittle and sardonic.

"He'll be able to function," said Skulduggery reassuringly, and then ruined it by adding: "He'll borrow someone else's determination for a while, and frankly, I think we'd all prefer he isn't alone."

"Why?" asked the Taoiseach cautiously.

"He has a habit of waking up as someone else under these kinds of circumstances," said Skulduggery delicately. "If there are people nearby, there are enough differing opinions to prevent him forgetting who he is."

"Does that — happen often?"

"Often enough," said Skulduggery, "often enough, and now you all understand why we keep him around. It would be like kicking a puppy if we told him he was too obnoxious to bear.”

“No, that’s you,” said Valkyrie, and turned around to see Saracen pointing at her emphatically. Skulduggery looked at them both.

“Excuse you,” he said with affront in his tone. “I am a perfect gentleman.”

Valkyrie and Saracen snorted in stereo. "Okay," said Valkyrie, "I need someone to carry him for me, then. Probably not you." She eyeballed Tesseract. "You know, in case we get attacked in the halls or something."

Someone had to have their hands free, safety, et cetera. It was a practical consideration she appreciated because it meant she could tell him not to come near Hopeless, just in case he decided his other contract was worth pursuing again.

“In fact, send Baritone to wherever we’re about to be,” Skulduggery added. “I’d like to see my Grand Mage safe and sound before I come back here.”

"Give us a few minutes," promised the Taoiseach, and turned to look around as people leap to obey.

"Don't be too long," said Saracen, looking very strained. "Without Descry I'm only going to be half as effective. Which is still pretty damn effective, but I'm running out of oomph here, and it’s going to be hard to consult Bliss if I have to go through the circle each time.”

“Inside of —” Skulduggery checked his pocketwatch. “— fifteen minutes we’ll hopefully know whether Guild’s alive, and can be brought here for safekeeping. And that’s if the bindings aren’t up before then, which, of course, would require a luck we don’t seem to have. Can you hold out until then?”

Saracen blew out a breath and nodded. “I’ve got it. Take care of Descry.”

“Always,” said Skulduggery, and moved toward Hopeless’s armchair to lift him in his spindly skeleton arms and cradle him against his narrow rib-cage. It didn’t look very comfortable, but Skulduggery was gentle in a way Valkyrie rarely saw.

He looked toward one of the aides hovering by the door.

“Lead the way,” he said, and Valkyrie scrambled to her feet to follow. She stuck by Skulduggery’s shoulder so she didn’t have to hang back with Tesseract, and because there was traffic out here and it was easier to stick by Skulduggery to get past the people hurrying back and forth. 

Voice low so no one else could hear, and without turning his head, Skulduggery said, “I’m going to ask you to do something very difficult, Valkyrie.”

Valkyrie nodded.

“Distract Tesseract.”

Valkyrie made a rude word with her fingers, very subtly and hidden by her body.

“It’s very important,” said Skulduggery. “Distract Tesseract, and when you can, come sit with Hopeless. You’ll be fine. I know for a fact his contract includes a stipulation against killing unless explicitly ordered.”

“Great,” Valkyrie muttered. There were stairs ahead. Stairs were good. A good opportunity. top of the stairs were better. God, this was going to suck.

The stairs were narrow. That was good. She hung back a little to let Skulduggery down first, and someone else up, and then pretended to trip over her feet so she collided with Tesseract as he started to come down. He caught her and she shivered, knowing what his magic was, how easily he could kill her right then.

And then she screamed like the teenager she was, flailing and shoving and trying to keep Tesseract from going down the stairs while making it look like she was in danger. “Help! Attack! Help! Help! Sorcerer! They’re in the barracks!”

Tesseract grunted as every hard-bitten military man nearby snapped around and leapt to pull him ‘off’ her and restrain him. She stumbled and pointed and screamed blood murder, and hoped Skulduggery really appreciated this because she was going to be in _big trouble_ for disrupting the place while there was an emergency going on.


	43. Hero and villain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Especially graphic violence in this one.

"Sir!" Doyle saluted hard. "The last group of hostages has been taken behind the cordon, sir."

Phil looked around at the intersection they were inhabiting, with trucks and cars blocking two of the three streets, and wondered which cordon she meant. Probably the one further back, where he'd _originally_ been in charge, and left in Connors' hands since his second had a twisted ankle anyway. It was the one where the medics and the healers were. Last time he'd been down that end he'd seen a site established for medical evacuations, and a lone ambulance.

"There's a new cordon, Garda Doyle," he said. "Let's call that one Checkpoint Beta."

"Understood, sir. Does that mean this one's Checkpoint Alpha?"

"Sure," said Phil. "Why not? Thank you, Doyle. Take a rest if you haven't had one."

"Yessir.“

She jogged toward the barricade instead.

The problem, Phil thought, was Merrion Square. There was a lot of open space there, and even though it was ostensibly theirs, he didn't like the idea of that not-so-open space _behind_ them. Fortunately, neither did the military forces and the sorcerers sent to back him up, so it was very well guarded. Somehow Phil had stayed in charge. He wasn't sure how to feel about that.

"Incoming!" someone hollered from the barricade facing down Merrion Street Upper.

"Fire in the hole," called one of the sorcerers, and the snap and _fwoom_ of flames made Phil wince. Had to say, they were useful, and definitely magic was the reason they'd gotten this far — but also now they were _very close_ to the Government Buildings, and all of them knew it. They knew it every time they glanced nervously toward the block; they knew it every time the shadows rose and lifted the Death Bringer up to survey his domain.

They didn't back down. They needed Merrion Square.

"Detective Inspector," said the sorcerer Phil _wished_ was in charge, the Shudder fellow who was very tall and very impressive and whose hands were shaking too much to hold any tools needed for drawing things like the symbols Shudder’s teams were creating, but were fine enough to be carrying around a monstrosity of a shotgun.

"How's those symbols going?" Phil asked.

"Ours are ready," said Shudder, "and those in St Stephen's Green, and College Park, and the corner of Molesworth and Frederick South."

"That's four," said Phil, his gut sinking. "Didn't you need five points?"

"The fifth is attempting to locate in Fitzwilliam Lane," said Shudder, and that was almost even closer to the Government Buildings than _they_ were; that was practically opposite it, and within direct view if nothing else.

"I guess they haven't had much luck, then," said Phil. "What do you --"

Someone started screaming, which was pretty bad, and someone else was shouting admiring obscenities, which seemed out of place but usually indicated some dinosaur someone hadn't had the chance to be impressed by yet. Phil ran for the barricade and wondered when that had become his default reaction; but Shudder was right there with him as they climbed to the top of the fire-engine generously driven into the area by the Department.

On the other side of the barricade, standing motionless right there in the middle of the corpse-strewn street, was a tyrannosaurus rex. Phil mostly noticed two things: it was a lot smaller than in his imagination, a fact he only knew was because of the buildings, and the Death Bringer was standing on its head, looking far scarier than the t-rex.

It was the tattoos, Phil decided. The tattoos _and_ the grin, and the red eyes, and just -- the whole rich tapestry of mad power, right there.

Not that the t-rex wasn't frightening, because it was. Up until now, the only zombies attacking had been era-appropriately recent, and human-shaped. The dinosaurs had seemed to mostly just do their thing, and crush a lot of things while they did it; the dinosaur containment teams were spread out further away from the Government Buildings. But this t-rex was standing still, not even breathing, and definitely not complaining about the man on its head. This t-rex, Phil could tell, was going to be a problem.

"You're doing something," said the Death Bringer. "I know you. Shudder — that's your name. They say you're the demon of the battlefield." He held out his hands. "Come. Entertain me."

"No," Shudder snapped, and the mad grin twisted into a petulant scowl.

"Then my friend here will entertain _you_ , and I'll go and have fun with the rats you have skulking about the lane."

He vanished in a swirl of shadows, and the t-rex shook itself and roared with something like confusion.

"We don't have tanks," said Phil quietly, without looking away from it. "We don't have anything that can take that, and no aerial support's been able to get this close —"

The t-rex turned its head, eyeballed them and the barricade like a bird, and Phil heard the collective audible breath of the defenders bracing themselves. Suddenly the barricade didn't look nearly so solid. It was a half-dozen cars in front, a semi-trailer slung across the road behind them, and a fire-truck behind _that_. And it hadn't had a t-rex eyeballing it before, and suddenly Phil was conscious that the cars, which were meant to be deterrents for the human zombies, could well look like stepping stones to a dinosaur.

"Shudder," said Phil again _,_ "we're not going to hold against that —" _  
_

"I _know_ ," Shudder cut him off, a little snappishly, but since the t-rex looked like it was done with its examination and hunkering down like a linebacker about to charge an opponent on the field, Phil could forgive him that.

"Fire!" roared one of the Elementals down the way — Amity, Phil thought his name was. In an explosion of flames an impressively large fireball shot out from the side of the barricade, and for exactly one second Phil hoped wildly that magic might solve this problem as easily as it created it.

The t-rex ducked. The fireball singed the scrappy feathers gracing the top of its ruff and went sailing overhead down the length of the street, catching on overhead wires and building eaves until it dissipated into nothing. At least, Phil hoped it did, because if that had started a fire there was no getting close enough to put it out.

"Amity," said Shudder in the kind of tone that sounded like it would be through gritted teeth, but wasn't. "Do not set the street on fire."

"Well, what are you going to do about it, then?" Amity shouted back. "You're neutered, Shudder!"

"Shut up," said Shudder, and this _definitely_ was through a clenched jaw. He vaulted onto the top of the barricade just as the t-rex roared and charged. Phil gripped the edge of the barricade to keep from stumbling as Shudder braced his shotgun against his shoulder, firing into the t-rex's head just as it turned to collide shoulder-first against the semi-trailer in a crunch of cards underfoot and the trailer's wall buckling.

A few people screamed, a few other people swore, and Phil heard himself shouting: "Fire at will! Fire! Not real fire!"

An entire line of guns went off and _kept_ going off, and the t-rex pulled back, turning on itself and shaking its head like it was being bothered by flies. Its eye was a ragged mess — Shudder was a good shot — but the thing was a zombie and losing an eye didn't seem to faze it at all.

Didn't seem to matter to its depth perception either, because its tail lashed out and the side of the trailer crumpled in a squeal of metal. Every vehicle in the barricade shook and Phil stumbled, and caught sight of Shudder staggering as the semi-trailer's roof caved in — and Shudder went with it.

"Hold fire, hold fire!" Phil screamed.

"He's already dead!" someone shouted.

"It's Shudder," Amity shouted back. "He's neutered, not a weakling!"

The t-rex roared and it was deafening. Phil clapped a hand over his ear and groped for his gun, and got to his feet to lunge toward the near side of the trailer, still mostly intact — enough to lean against and use as cover, even though he didn't dare shoot without knowing where Shudder was. The t-rex lunged and Phil saw Shudder pushing himself to his feet on the hood of a crumpled car, and his heart stopped as the t-rex's jaws snapped shut —

Tried. Phil stared in disbelief as Anton caught that steel-trap of a bite, levering the t-rex's jaws open with arms that trembled, but _held_.

"What the _f_ —" someone began.

The t-rex let out a twisted startled mewl of a noise, and with back braced against the twisted wall of the semi-trailer Shudder twisted arms and body and took the t-rex off its feet like a wrestler. It hit the ground with a fleshy thud that made everything tremble, and the sound it let out was almost a squawk. That sound twisted as Shudder brought his foot down on its inside upper jaw, and wrenched its lower jaw free with a twisting crack of shattered bone while it squealed and bucked and left deep grooves in asphalt with its clawing feet.

"Shit," said Amity, high and frightened — the first time any sorcerers had _sounded_ frightened the entire six months Phil's known about any of them. " _Shit_ shit shit —"

"What?" Phil asked shakily, swallowing hard to keep his stomach down, trying not to throw up. Someone else down the line lost the battle and Phil pressed his hand to his mouth.

"Retreat," said Amity, and then he started screaming: "Retreat! Retreat! The gist is loose! _Shudder's gist is loose!_ "

The other Elementals were already scrambling off the barricade, but the rest of them — the ones who _weren't_ sorcerers — were slower on the uptake. Horrified, Phil watched as Shudder thrust the length of jawbone into the soft palate of the t-rex's upper head, again and again straight into its brain until it was a uselessly twitching mass of bone and muscle, and _laughing_ while he did.

He left it there, impaled in the asphalt, and turned; and now Phil saw that his eyes were black, and his face was set in an alien rictus of a sharp-fanged grin, and his hands —

His hands were long claws jutting through broken nails.

"I'm out," he said, guttural and twisted through teeth that didn't want to fit into his mouth. "I'm out I'm out _out out out out out_ —"

One moment he was standing there; the next he'd leapt from road to car to semi-trailer, and Phil only had enough time to flinch back at the flash of movement in front of him, tripping on his heel and landing on his back on the fire-truck's roof. Something insubstantial struck him from the side and he went flying into the semi-trailer, and Shudder's claws impaled the fire-truck's roof with a squeal of metal. He twisted and tore up the roof with a howl of rage. 

Phil saw the claws coming and had enough time to think, _That's it for me._

A hailstone the size of a dog struck Shudder like a well-aimed meteorite and he slammed into the road inside the barrier, and Phil pushed himself shakily upright.

"Sir!"

"Alive?" Phil asked weakly as Doyle heaved him upright. There was a crack of ice and Shudder howled, and Phil's knees gave out — but it was enough to see him shaking off that block of ice like it was a layer of fine snow, snarling and furious.

"Run!" screamed one of the Elementals, and Amity bolted from where he stood, close by the barricade. It wouldn't be fast enough — even though Shudder’s movements were jerkier, slower than before, it wouldn’t be enough.

Something plummet out of the air. Some _one_ , because they spread their arms and twisted, and collided feet first with Shudder's back where he _hadn't_ been a moment ago, less than a foot from Amity's fleeing heels. Shudder hit the dirt and rolled snarling, and the man who'd fallen from the sky kicked off nothing and flipped away from scraping claws.

"Anton!" he screamed. "Anton, _stop_!"

" _I won't be bound again_!" Shudder shrieked, and lunged too fast to see. “I’ll kill you, _I’ll kill you_ I’m out _out out!”_

Somehow the man from the sky knew where Shudder would be — he spun away and flipped, dodging and blocking with the gauntlet on his arm, and sometimes seeming to step off thin air like a parkour acrobat.

"Larrikin!" Amity hollered. "Stop talking, _start killing_!"

Larrikin's response was a blistering curse Phil didn't totally understand because it was in Irish, and even Phil could see it was a mistake, slowed him down _just_ enough. Shudder's claws raked toward him and Phil flinched, expecting to see blood and someone dying.

Instead the claws raked over stone and Shudder shrieked and thrust his claws into the heart of the statue — no, man — no, _statu_ e—twisting away as peels of stone flaked off him. He caught Shudder's arm and blocked his second with the gauntlet, and lunged to fling his arms around Shudder with such force that it sent them both toppling.

 _"Aodh_ _please!_ "

Shudder's claws came up and for a breathless moment Phil was certain, _again,_ that was it, because what kind of idiot hugged an out-of-control monster, anyway —

Shudder's hands fell against the road and his chest heaved, and now Phil could see where he got his name, because the shudders that ran through him were almost convulsions.

But his hands didn't lift, and when Phil glanced at them again, they were bloody ragged fingers. Not claws. Trembling hard — but not claws.

"Get off me," said Shudder in a voice like it'd been dragged over shards of glass. Larrikin's grip tightened.

" _Stupid idiot_."

"I wasn't about to get eaten by a tyrannosaurus rex," said Shudder. "It would have been embarrassing after I killed that dragon. A step down. Slumming it."

Larrikin laughed and it was a teary, hysterically relieved laugh; but he sat up just as Amity was sidling closer with fire in his hands. Instantly Larrikin's bearing shifted; his entire being bristled and he hissed, actually _hissed_ , arching over Shudder like a protective cat. A giant one. A saber-toothed tiger kind of cat. " _You put that away right this gods-damned minute or I'll strew your innards from Liffey to southern coast."_

Amity hesitated, and closed his shaking fists to snuff out the flames. "He's rapid," he said. "It'd be doing him a favour."

"Shut up," said Larrikin. "No one's killing Anton, got it?"

"What if he —" someone else started, and Phil only realised it was _him_ when Larrikin's gaze shifted, unblinking and almost as alien as Shudder's had been, for the glint in his eyes. Phil swallowed hard. "We need to be able to contain him."

"Hey!" someone shouted, someone overhead and with a creak of rope, and Phil looked up. They all looked up, and stared, and Phil wondered dazedly if he was dead and just didn't know it.

There was a yacht floating in the sky over the road.

"Sir," said Doyle.

"I see it," said Phil. And the man who was waving over the edge. He vaulted the side and dropped twenty feet straight to the ground, landing with a heavy crunch of bitumen and straightening up like he'd just vaulted a four-foot fence.

"Hey," he said, digging around in his pockets. "We've got something that might help." He withdrew something that looked like a disc or a battery, maybe the width of a large coin.

"What's that?" Larrikin asked suspiciously.

"It's a Calm-Downer," said the man.

"You need to work on naming things," said Larrikin, and Shudder grunted. The man looked offended.

"I'm not taking that from a man who called his bedroom the 'Cuddlebug Loveseat of Infinite Possibility," he said, and someone in the background laughed with hysterical disbelief, and couldn't seem to stop. The man ignored that, and waved the device. "It's still in development. It's _meant_ to just cool people off if they, y'know —" He glanced at Shudder, still laying flat on the ground with Larrikin straddling him. "— have anger-management issues, but right now it puts people into a forced coma. He'll wake up again when it's taken off him, it's just ..." He shrugged. "... not what we were after. We were building it for Skulduggery, but it'd work on Shudder just as well. All you have to do is put it on his temple, like the Grand Mage's thingy."

Larrikin hesitated. Shudder said, "Do it."

Larrikin's face scrunched up like he was trying very hard not to cry; but he waved his hand and the device flew from the man's hand to his, and with quick jerky motions Larrikin pressed it to Shudder's temple. At once Shudder's eyes rolled back and he went limp, and Larrikin climbed to his feet. He looked up at Phil.

"The Hibernian's where faeries go when we want healing," he said. "He goes there, nowhere else. If _anyone_ —" He glared at Amity. "— harms a _hair_ on his head for reasons that aren't medical, I'm holding all _five_ of you Four Elementals responsible."

That definitely sounded like a threat. Phil nodded quickly, glad it wasn't him on the receiving end of that one, because judging by Amity's face Larrikin was well capable of following through.

"Oy," came a voice drifting down from the yacht. "I can't make this thing go without at least one other Elemental. Just in case you'd forgotten."

Larrikin's face scrunched again, and he held out his hands, and with a wide sweep sent the unnamed man sailing up through the air and over the side of the yacht, his foot clipping the side.

"Ow," drifted back down.

"You're a strongman, you don't feel pain, whiner," Larrikin shouted back. His head jerked toward Phil again. "We'll see what we can do about Fitzwilliam Lane."

"Thanks," said Phil, and then realised what he'd said and repeated, far more heartily, " _Thank_ you."

The man bowed with a flourish. "Just call me Rover — the man who leashes Shudder's dog."

Phil laughed, a little unwillingly, as Larrikin thrust his hands toward the ground and went shooting up toward the yacht, and vanished over the side. A moment later it tilted as wind filled its sails, and Doyle heaved Phil to his feet to watch it glide silently through the air over the barricade, passing over the twitching t-rex like a … well, a ship in the night.

The t-rex’s body was still convulsing, trying to get to its feet, like every other zombie had — but its head was crushed and it couldn’t seem to compensate for the change in balance. Or maybe these reanimations were like energiser bunnies, as long as they had their undead brains intact.

It made Phil’s chest twist a little in sympathy, like watching a dying pet struggling. At least — well, at least they should be able to do something about that.

“Amity?” Phil called over his shoulder. “ _Now_ you can set it on fire.”


	44. A Vile history

"Do you see him?" Ghastly asked Donegan, grunting because it was getting a bit difficult keeping the yacht steady. His arms were shaking, and it wasn't a physical weariness he was feeling. This was all magical.

"Nope," said Donegan from the bow, fiddling with the device mounted there. "We _should_ be hidden again, though. Should."

"I'm really not thrilled with the delivery of your services," Ghastly muttered.

"It wasn't finished!" Gracious protested from the stern, his hand on the rudder. It was useless on its own, but as part of their hurried experiments they'd managed to jerry-rig something so Gracious could angle the sails from there. "We _said_ it wasn't finished! In what world does 'um I'm not sure it'll work' equal 'sure, we can be totally invisible at all moments while there's a necromancer running amok with dinosaurs'."

"Not this one, apparently," said Ghastly, and glanced back, searching for Rover. He wasn't saying anything, which was unusual, but his face was set and focused, and the air filling the yacht's sails meant they were plunging toward the lane much faster than Ghastly was strictly comfortable with.

Things he also wasn't comfortable with: Anton dying, Anton, gisting, and the screams and lashes of shadow coming from within the shopping area surrounding the lane.

"Here we go," he shouted, bracing his feet against the deck and spread his fingers slowly — a little slower — lowering the yacht bit by by until its hull scraped the antenna on a roof. There wasn't anywhere to leave the thing, nowhere _good_ , anyway — and then it didn't matter, because a spear of shadow came up from below. Ghastly felt it puncturing through air and shouted: " _Abandon ship_!"

The whole yacht shuddered and wrenched as the spear pierced its hull and came up through the deck, and Ghastly distinctly heard Rover let out a groan of resignation. He didn't turn to try and find him, mostly because he'd abandoned his effort to keep the yacht aloft and was sprinting for Donegan and the rail.

Donegan scooped up as much of his equipment as he could, even while the yacht started to break apart and plummet, and the deck cracked under their feet. Ghastly pressed down on air with one hand and scooped Donegan up with the other; and then they were falling, but in a controlled way. Ghastly shoved air down to cushion the blow and they still hit the ground a little harder than optimal.

There was the barest moment to take in the scene, to see one sigil-mason frantically using chalk to draw a circle in a protected corner while two others were using long-poled scalpels to draw a larger one which matched the markings on Wreath's face. And there were corpses, piled oddly in a corner with something glowing at the base of them. Some wore black robes; others didn’t. Ghastly hoped there were no civilians among the ones in plainclothes.

" _Um_ ," said Donegan, patting Ghastly's shoulder frantically, and Ghastly shoved back with the air and sent them skidding away from a lash of shadow that tried to wrap around them both. Donegan lifted his hand, fired off an energy-beam, and the ripple of light dissolved a few of the smaller shadows. A few.

Ghastly hopped over an over-turned car and let Donegan stand on his own two feet, still clutching the remains of their cloaking device. A shadow shot overhead and they both ducked, hunkering down behind the car.

"So lovely for you to join us, Ghastly," said China.

"I'd say the same thing," said Ghastly, "but given how angry at you the others have been, I'm pretty sure I shouldn't."

China brushed this off with a laugh, and then rose to her feet and lobbed something which looked remarkably like a grenade toward the thickest mass of shadows across the other side of the lane. It didn't explode: it just let out a _foomp_ , like a reverse explosion, and all the shadows vanished in a blink. The device dropped to the ground and continued glowing, and any shadows which came close dissolved.

"What was _that_?"

"It seems," said China, "some enterprising researcher in Ravel's darling city invented a magic-neutralisation bomb."

Something clicked in Ghastly's head. "Don't they turn into soul-catchers when you reverse their polarity?"

" _Do_ they?" China widened her eyes and her smile became sharp. "My, my. That explains a lot about the Remnants last year. Unfortunately, not nearly as useful against Death. I'm slightly disappointed, actually. Ravel made it sound like a truly _vile_ threat."

Donegan yelped and Ghastly glared, and all of them were distracted as shadows picked up the car and tried to slam it down on them. They scattered hard and fast, China with sigils glowing through her trousers and Donegan scurrying away. Ghastly sprinted _toward_ the shadows, and caught sight of Wreath's body looking extremely unamused. Yep, easy to assume a different person, there.

Death turned on Ghastly as Ghastly threw fire at him, brushing it off with a cloak of shadows; and then he looked startled, and then pleased.

"I know you," he said, and Rover vaulted toward him from behind in a blaze of fire that _almost_ burned away the shadows enough to land a hit. Almost. At the last minute Death shadow-walked two feet to the side, his gaze still on Ghastly. Something in Ghastly's stomach turned over, but he snapped his fingers and summoned fire and threw it again, more to hide the way Rover darted away to flank him while Gracious came up from behind.

"You're the Scarred Man," said Death, and Rover let out a high-pitched humourless cackle of a laugh.

"Oh good, _your_ eyes do work!"

They both threw fire in Death's face to blind him, and Gracious drew back his fist and punched; but Death vanished into shadows and appeared in front of Ghastly, reaching out for his chest still with that eerie grin. Ghastly leapt back, avoiding whatever _that_ touch was going to be, and snapped his fingers.

"She almost got through to me, because of how she burned with rage when you fell," said Death, and the flames in Ghastly's hands faltered as his chest squeezed so tightly it stole all the strength from his legs. "She had so _much_ to her soul ..."

_"Mother!"_

_"Oh, hello, Ghastly, are you having fun?"_

Feeling came back in a rush of heat and tears.

" _Shut up!"_ Ghastly screamed, and thrust fire forward, but Death shadow-walked away laughing and Ghastly thrust his hand out to pull oil from a leaking car. It streamed across the air and ignited with Rover's flames, and for a moment shadows and fiery rope were intertwined lashing across the lane, the air hot and close and stifling.

A whip of shadow lashed toward him and Ghastly barely managed to dull it with air as it caught him in the chest and slammed him into the wall. He fell to the ground in a cascade of rubble, wheezing and limbs refusing to work.

"Gracious, cover Ghastly!" Rover hollered, and swept up all the dying fire and shoved it in Death's direction. He shadow-walked away.

"Barracks, hello, this is Fitzwilliam Lane --"

"Stop that," said Death out of the shadows, sounding annoyed, and appeared outside the circle the sigil-mason was standing in. She blanched, but in a bloom of shadow there was another necromancer between them, one Ghastly knew, and Death snarled. " _Traitor_. I am your god!"

" _You_ are a thing pretending to be a man," said Cleric Quiver, and twisted the sphere in his hands. Death jerked and shadow-walked away from _that_ , and half his shadows were caught in the bloom of solid nothing as the device activated. _  
_

_"Stop using those!"_ Death screamed, and Ghastly took a deep breath that rasped in his lungs, and pushed himself shakily upright to find Gracious standing protectively in front of him.

"You're interfering with the circle!" shouted the sigil-mason, and Quiver moved away, heading swiftly to the pile of stirring corpses to replace the neutraliser. "Barracks, _hello_ , do you hear me?!"

Death snarled and raised his hands, and a wall of shadow shot out at all sides. Ghastly grabbed Gracious from behind and threw them both behind the car, and in a squeal of metal it rammed them backward until they hit the wall. Gracious grunted, pressing against the car with his hands while his back was pressed against Ghastly, and the car crumpled under his strength.

Not enough. There was still shadow pushing back on the other side, and Ghastly was bigger than Gracious was; Gracious's impenetrable body wasn't enough to protect all of him.

His ears were ringing. He heard Rover shout, "How many of those things do you have?!"

"Only two, I'm afraid," China called back. "Not enough to trap him, in case you were wondering."

Rover's only response was a stream of Irish curses.

"Little help," Gracious managed, and Ghastly wrenched one arm free with a sting of skin being scraped raw by something dull-sharp, and put air behind Gracious's push. The car gave a little more, with a creaking groan, and then all at once the shadows vanished and they toppled forward, and Ghastly caught sight of Death staggering. His head jerked hard and he blinked, and for a second his eyes seemed less red.

"What --?" he began, and it sounded more like Wreath's bewilderment than Death's savage arrogance.

" _Barracks to all binding teams, activate! Activate now!"_

"It's not done yet!" shouted one of the sigil-masons on the other circle, sounding panicked. "It's not done!"

Part of the circle hummed and loose magic crackled, and the sigil-masons dove away. Donegan dove _toward,_ throwing down all the equipment in his arms to slap something to the ground that sparked and glowed and slammed a shield up over the binding circle, catching the magic and turning it in.

"They've activated the other bindings," China called, sounding displeased.

" _No_!" Death snarled, and red flooded his eyes, but even as shadows rose he jerked again, his head snapping around.

"That's enough," said Wreath. " _That's enough_."

His knees gave out as Ghastly lunged and caught him, but Ghastly's legs weren't exactly steady either. They both sank to the ground, and Wreath blinked up at him with half-red eyes, sounding drunken as he said, "Bespoke?"

"What happened?" Ghastly demanded, and Wreath's head twitched.

"I don't -- were we talking about Lady Gray?"

"Hold him," said China from close over Ghastly's shoulder, and Rover's hands reached into the ground to pull up narrow concrete restraints that he moulded over Wreath's hands like it was clay, and then over his feet as well.

"That was a while ago," said Ghastly to Wreath, and he looked up at China. "What happened?"

China sank down beside them, looking lovely and focused, and drew a scalpel from the sheath on her wrist.

"Not only the bindings," she said. "Ours weren't prepared. Dear Saracen must have 'just known' something. Keep Wreath distracted, won't you, Ghastly? At a glance I can stabilise him with just a few changes to these sigils, but it will be rather painful and Death isn't quite sealed yet."

Ghastly looked down at Wreath again, and took a deep trembling breath. "Lady Gray," he said. "I never heard the story behind Lady Gray."

"Skulduggery," Wreath muttered, and twitched and hissed as China brought sigil against skin. Ghastly held him a little tighter, so he didn't hurt himself moving on the sharp edge of her blade. "Was — Skulduggery."

Rover let out a soft watery laugh. Ghastly blinked. "Lady Gray _was_ Skulduggery?"

Wreath tried to move his head but that seemed too much for him, and instead it thudded against Ghastly's shoulder. "Investigating — a wake. I was a … servant boy. Couldn't — get upstairs. Skulduggery came in with his own disguise … said he was my grandmother. Accidentally seduced the deceased's brother … got love letters for _months_."

"Is he serious?" Gracious asked, wide-eyed and with dawning half-horrified glee in his tone. "Is he _serious_? Please tell me he's serious!"

"Felt a little sorry for the man," Wreath mumbled, and his brow furrowed. "I'd forgotten … why did I forget that? Skulduggery making a right fool of himself — how could I forget _that_?"

"That sounds like memory magic to me," said Ghastly gently. His throat felt tight.

"Memory …" Wreath's eyes snapped open and he jolted, his hand gripping Ghastly's armour as China twitched her scalpel away to avoid cutting any of the bindings that shouldn't be cut. His eyes were back as they should be, but wide and intent, for all their blindness. "Skulduggery. Something's happened to — Skulduggery."

Ghastly's chest turned to ice. "What? What's happened?"

"I don't remember," said Wreath, sounding faintly, petulantly disgusted with himself. "I don't — but I couldn't stay. Something … something threw me out of his skeleton. Something's happened to Skulduggery."

"Give him to me," said Rover, plonking himself down on the ground and holding out his arms with a trembling grin. "I could do with a cuddle."

Wreath groaned. "Not you."

"Shut up, you don't get a choice."

With careful gentleness Ghastly handed Wreath to Rover, and then got to his feet and turned with a terrible calm toward Quiver.

"Can you shadow-walk?" he asked. "Can you take me to Cathal Brugha Barracks?"

"Yes," said Quiver, and held out his hand. Ghastly took it, surprised to find his _wasn't_ trembling, and they vanished into shadows.


	45. Mission accomplished

Valkyrie had been right: distracting Tesseract sucked. She got detained, along with Tesseract, and at first it was just ordinary soldiers and she babbled whatever the hell came into her head. Then Minister Kavanagh had got involved and things _really_ sucked.

Valkyrie heard her speaking tersely outside the room she was behind held in, and decided it was time to cut her losses. When the minister came in, looking very harried and very annoyed, Valkyrie said, “Skulduggery told me to.”

Kavanagh stopped, and blinked, and said, “What?”

“Skulduggery told me to,” Valkyrie repeated. “He wanted Tesseract out of the way, or away from Hopeless, or just somewhere he wouldn’t hear the conversation he’d be having with Cleric Baritone, and didn’t want Tesseract to know he was getting put out of the way.”

For a long moment Kavanagh said nothing. Then: “And you don’t think you making a scene would kind of make it obvious it was a cover up?”

“Frankly I didn’t think that far ahead,” Valkyrie admitted.

Kavanagh nodded without moving from the closed door, her hand still on the handle. “Is Tesseract an enemy?”

“I don’t know,” said Valkyrie. “Maybe. Skulduggery doesn’t do stuff like this without good reason. But now Tesseract’s out of the way, at least until this is over, and unless he’s still talking to Baritone —”

“Cleric Baritone left a while ago to join the other necromancers at the cordon,” said Kavanagh.

Valkyrie nodded. “Then Skulduggery needed to get back to the war-room but can’t leave Hopeless alone. So, _please_ …”

Kavanagh looked at her, and grimaced. “The day I take orders from a teenager … I’ll come with; I know where they’ve taken him. No arguments.”

“No arguments,” said Valkyrie quickly, and got up. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me,” said Kavanagh, opening the door. “We haven’t heard back from the people going to liberate your Sanctuary yet, and you’re one of only three conscious faeries in the place.”

“Great,” muttered Valkyrie, and followed Kavanagh through the halls until they reached a place which looked an awful lot like a vault, it was such a huge metal door. It even had a guard next to it. “What’s this?”

“The detective said your Grand Mage needed somewhere quiet and dark,” said Kavanagh. She nodded to the guard and opened the door with a grunt and the weight of something so heavy Valkyrie could feel it without touching it. “In there. I’ll be out here —”

“Minister Kavanagh!” someone shouted urgently from down the hall, and Kavanagh turned, and Valkyrie slipped into the room without waiting, pulling the door not quite closed behind her.

It _was_ dark, because there were no windows; the only light was through the slit in the door. It looked like there were other rooms, but their doors were closed right now, and it was the cot in a little desk nook right near the door that Valkyrie was more interested in. Cot, silhouette of someone long and skinny with their hand over their eyes, and —

She frowned. There was a chair next to the cot, but no skeleton in it, and when Valkyrie spread her fingers carefully she felt no movement.

Cautiously, her heart pounding, Valkyrie stepped closer to the cot, and asked softly, “Descry?”

The figure on the bed stirred, and Valkyrie heard Hopeless’s breath catch. She stepped forward again, then sank into the chair with suddenly rubbery knees, and snapped her fingers to cradle a very, _very_ small flame.

Hopeless smiled at her from under his hand, a wobbly smile which did nothing to hide the pain in and around his eyes. 

“Where’s Skulduggery?” Valkyrie asked, and Hopeless blinked and frowned.

‘He’s not in the war-room?’

Valkyrie’s heart skipped a beat, fell somewhere in the vicinity of her stomach, and kept pounding. “He left you alone?”

Hopeless shook his head and his eyes creased and he covered his eyes properly as he signed one-handed, ‘I sent him back there when the nurse came with some medication. She said there were guards outside.’

“Just a second.”

Valkyrie got up and went to the door, slipping out in the smallest gap she could manage, and demanded, “Is Skulduggery in the war-room?”

“What?” asked Kavanagh, sounding harassed. “No, he was here, wasn’t he? Listen — No.” She snagged Valkyrie’s sleeve as she turned to go back into the dark room. “Stop, _listen_. Death’s been contained, he’s collapsed. Word from the yacht is that Wreath’s back in control.”

“And no one knows where Skulduggery is,” said Valkyrie, and was about to pull on the door when it swung open without her, making her jump back. Hopeless stood in the opening, listing heavily on the jamb, with his hand still over his eyes.

‘I need to go back to the war-room,’ he signed. His hand was trembling.

“You can barely stand up,” Valkyrie objected, but her voice was hushed in deference to the migraine he was probably still having. His face was _white_.

‘We still haven’t dealt with the warhead,’ Hopeless said. ‘Take me to the war-room.’

“For the record, _super_ not in favour,” Valkyrie muttered, but she swung open the door more and scooted under Hopeless’s arm so he could lean on her instead of the door. She wasn’t as tall as one of the other Dead Men, aside from Rover and Saracen; but she was tall for her age, always had been, and it wasn’t totally awkward as they got out into the hall.

Kavanagh went ahead, shaking her head. “Clear the hall,” Valkyrie heard her ordering. “Keep it quiet from here to the war-room. The Grand Mage is coming.”

They moved as fast as they could, which was pretty fast accounting for the fact that Valkyrie was almost carrying Hopeless, except for how his legs were moving. Valkyrie was pretty sure he was swallowing whimpers. She wasn’t going to mention it if he wasn’t.

When they reached the war-room there was a hush of a victorious hubbub happening, people speaking very quietly but with excitement, and Saracen’s wear voice over it all.

“St Patrick’s Park, hello, confirming zombies are incapacitated … confirmed. Barracks out. Iveagh Gardens, hello, confirming zombies are incapacitated … confirmed. Barracks out.”

“He almost sounds worse than you,” Valkyrie muttered, and felt more than saw Hopeless’s mouth turn up in a smile.

Kavanagh opened the door for them, made sure the way was clear, so there wasn’t anything in their way as they lurched in. Saracen looked haggard and grey, and the Taoiseach, when he looked up, just looked relieved — at least until he saw Hopeless.

“Grand Mage,” he said, sounding a little shocked. “Excuse me for saying so, but you look —”

“Awful,” Valkyrie finished, and aimed for the armchairs; but Hopeless resisted, pulling toward the table. “You want the table?” Wait. He said they haven’t dealt with the warhead, and Bisahalani had that. “We need the phone,” she said to the Taoiseach.

“Clear the way,” he said, but those nearest the phone were already clearing, bring the phone over and arranging the nearest chairs. “Who are we calling?”

“The Grand Mage of the US Sanctuary,” said Valkyrie.

“Inns Quay, hello, confirming the zombie is incapacitated,” said Saracen in the background.

“I hope you have a number,” said the Taoiseach grimly, and set the phone down as Valkyrie poured Hopeless into the nearest seat. He rested his head on the table, his arms folded over him, and took some deep breaths, and the Taoiseach asked quietly: “Is he okay?”

“No,” said Valkyrie, and kept her hand on Hopeless’s shoulder. “If everyone can think of something soothing, that would be grand. Things like … beaches. Or blue skies. Rivers running. Waves on the shore. Pick one and stick with it. I like swimming, myself. The way water blocks out everything else … the way it’s all cool and calm …”

She imagined it as she spoke, and after a moment Hopeless’s shoulders shuddered again and he unfolded his arms and lifted his head. He pressed the thoughtspeaker against his temple and it made him go green, but he rested his head in one hand and breathed, and the thoughtspeaker glitched and settled as he groped for the phone.

It was an old style phone, the kind with a keypad. He punched in the number and the Taoiseach put it on speaker. It rang and rang, and there was silence in the room aside from Saracen, behind them, clearing each location to Hammond’s aides by the map.

“Primary Sanctuary of the United States of America,” said a voice from the phone. “This is the switchboard. How may I direct your call?”

“This is Grand Mage Hopeless,” said Hopeless, “calling for Renato.”

“Please hold.”

Valkyrie eased down into the chair next to Hopeless’s, thought very hard about being underwater, and swallowed the urge to laugh. On the _phone_ , in a situation like this, and they still got put on hold.

But it didn’t take long for Bisahalani picked up, and he sounded wary and tense. “Grand Mage.”

“Vile’s armour has been contained,” said Hopeless, “and you’re going to call off the strike you’re tricking the White House into.”

“Guild didn’t waste time, I see,” said Bisahalani coldly, “or perhaps you don’t trust your Elders as much as he claimed. You _say_ the threat is gone — but I don’t believe it is, and I’m not referring to the armour.”

“Renato,” said Hopeless, “I’m tired, I have a blinding headache, and I’ve been having a very bad day. You’re going to call off the strike not because it’s stupid, not because it’s wrong, and not because the cost in human lives is going to extend far past Ireland if you do. You’re going to call it off because Vile’s armour is right now contained inside a human soul, and if you bomb Dublin, you’re going to kill the man keeping it contained. Now, _maybe_ a warhead would have destroyed the armour completely — while it was in control. But now that it’s not, when that man dies, there will be absolutely nothing stopping the armour from reanimating his body and continuing where it left off. How many times can you pull off a con on the White House, Renato? How many bombs can you drop before no one believes it was something you _had_ to do?”

There was a very long moment of brittle silence, save the murmur of Saracen’s voice in the background. Valkyrie found herself holding her breath.

The phone crackled. “If an Irish sorcerer sets foot on any part of US soil, I will have them arrested and executed as enemy combatants.”

He hung up, and Valkyrie released her breath slowly, and Hopeless’s shoulders slumped. Everyone else at the table stirred, turning to each other, murmuring quietly — picking up where they’d left off. The Taoiseach shook his head, and there was awe on his face; but all he said was, “Grand Mage, with all due respect, you need to be in a hospital.”

Hopeless smiled weakly at him. His thoughtspeaker crackled, but there were only snatches of voices in it, and instead his fingers moved even as his head sank toward the desk.

'Tell Ghastly he’s needed downstairs.’

His eyes rolled back and he went limp; but he was already mostly on the table anyway. All Valkyrie had to do was catch him before he slid off the chair, just as Ghastly rushed into the room.

* * *

The moment the hospital was cleared by Saracen, Erskine seized one of the necromancers and had him shadow-walk to the barracks. It took a few hops — necromancers, it turned out, were limited by magical power and geographical distance but not necessarily by familiarity with destination.

By that point the cleric was grey so Erskine help him up until they reached the building where most of the activity was taking. The guards looked very nervous, and there was a sound in the distance that was definitely shouting. It wasn’t even the happy kind of shouting. That was a bad sign.

“He needs some rest,” said Erskine shortly, handing the weaving necromancer over to one of them. “What’s happening?” 

“Someone’s attacking the barracks,” she said, “but — weirdly. He’s a faery but he’s alone, he’s not using shadows or zombies like the others did —”

Erskine was already heading into the building’s hall, moving toward the sound of shouts and flames flaring. Necromancers, warlocks — if Elementals were coming after the barracks, now, they have another thing coming. Erskine is pretty damn _tired_ of it all, and it was getting in his way of seeing whether Hopeless was okay.

“ _Put down the fire or we’ll open fire —_ ”

Someone was shouting somewhere in the courtyard up ahead, someone sounding so incredibly frazzled he didn’t know what he was saying. Erskine cracked a grim smile, snapped his fingers, and shouldered through the half-open door.

“Behind you with fire,” he said calmly, and soldiers jumped away. Past them fire flew, and Erskine snapped out his free hand to shove it upward, shifting his balance to throw the fire in his other and bracing himself for the kind of knock-down drag-out fight only Elementals could manage —

Green eyes, brown hair, handsome face turned brittle snarl of adrenaline —

Erskine’s arm jerked and his fire shot skyward, and he blurted — “Skulduggery!?”

No, it — it couldn’t be. It couldn’t be, but —

But the man stopped, his chest heaving and body trembling, with fire still in his hands and the manic glint of a desperate man in his eyes. “I know you,” he ground out through a clenched jaw, set in the rictus of a snarl he couldn’t seem to put away. “Who are you?! Where am I?! Where’s Liliya?!”

Erskine’s stomach plunged into the ground, probably into the subway, and left him feeling as though he’d just stepped into a frozen river. “Someone get Hopeless,” he said quietly to the armed and wary soldiers around him. Heat surged back up as nausea and trembling disbelief, and Erskine barked, “Go! Now!”

Someone went; he heard the door slam. Erskine couldn’t take his eyes off Skulduggery — it _was_ Skulduggery. Skulduggery as he’d looked like —

He was wearing the Dead Men’s armour, Erskine registered, but with the shirt hanging open, his boots missing — as if he’d cast off and opened anything that was too tight.

“You said you know me,” he said, trying to keep his voice even, but he couldn’t keep the tremble out of it.

Skulduggery. Like he was before — when he was alive.

“Ravel,” said Skulduggery, and there was nothing calm about him, even though he was standing still. He looked like — like Erskine probably looked, coming out of Mevolent’s dungeon. “Erskine Ravel, you’re Deuce’s second, you’re Descry’s friend — where am I? Where’s —”

His jaw clenched on the final word, and Erskine couldn’t tell whether it was because he had to cut it off, or because his voice had failed him. It didn’t sound liquid smooth now. Now, it was hoarse and trembling.

But it was still Skulduggery’s voice.

Erskine swallowed hard on the words crowding his mouth. He couldn’t treat Skulduggery like they were friends. By the time Skulduggery died, they’d _met_ , they knew each other — but they weren’t friends.

“Someone’s getting Descry,” he said quietly, and held out his hands so Skulduggery could see he wasn’t doing anything with them, there was no magic here. “Please put down the fire. Please.”

“This could be a trick,” said Skulduggery, and his voice was strained. He backed up, but he didn’t put down the fire, and Erskine could see his hands trembling. He might not release it by accident, but it also might start burning him soon. If he’d just come from —

If he’d just … come from that, he was probably exhausted.

Erskine nodded. “You’re right, it could be a trick. Serpine could be making you hallucinate a bunch of men in uniform with mortal weapons in a style that you’ve never seen before.”

“Serpine,” Skulduggery snarled, bristling and shoulders hunching, and Erskine stopped, cursing himself and Serpine and everything in general. Had he been like this, after? No wonder everyone had tip-toed around him. “Where is he!? I’ll kill him!”

“Serpine’s dead,” said Erskine simply, and Skulduggery shuddered and let out a breath that might have been a snarl, or might have been something else. Erskine took a small step closer, just a small one, to put himself more between Skulduggery and the soldiers. He wasn’t sure who he was trying to protect.

Maybe it didn’t matter.

“Serpine’s dead,” he said again, “and the war is over. It’s been over for — just about a century now, actually. We won. Mevolent lost. The world’s — I don’t if I’d call it a _safe_ place, but we’re standing in the middle of a mortal barracks and no one’s shouting about witches, so that might tell you something.”

The shudder in Skulduggery was bigger now, all-consuming. If this were Shudder, Erskine would be worried, but it wasn’t. It was Skulduggery. Erskine took another step forward.

“Tell Hopeless not to come,” said Skulduggery, and the words sounded like they were choked out of him. “Tell him —”

“He knows,” said Erskine. “He’s in the building. He already knows.” He shook his head with a faint deprecating laugh. “There’s no _way_ he’s staying away.”

“If he doesn’t,” said Skulduggery, “ _if he doesn’t —_ ”

The door slammed open and Erskine didn’t turn. He heard a breath and Skulduggery closed his eyes and turned his face upward, and the snarl suddenly looked more like a rictus of grief. “You should have stayed away …”

“ _Shut up_ ,” Ghastly snarled, his voice thick with tears, and he moved past Erskine as if he hadn’t noticed he was there, pulling Skulduggery against his chest in a crushingly trembling embrace that hid Skulduggery’s face in his shoulder. “ _As if I’d be anywhere else_.”

The fire in Skulduggery’s hands snuffed out, and Skulduggery’s knees folded, and his hands dropped. Ghastly held him up, even when his body wracked, even while he trembled. Skulduggery didn’t make a sound.

Erskine turned, but the open doorway was empty behind the soldiers covering the space Ghastly had left when he barged through it. Hopeless hadn’t come. Erskine’s stomach plunged. “Where’s —?”

“Descry’s unconscious,” said Ghastly, muffled against Skulduggery’s shoulder, and Erskine swallowed hard. For a moment he shifted, almost went to the door, almost stormed upstairs — and then he didn’t. Instead he turned back toward Ghastly and Skulduggery, exhaling shakily and moving closer, and stopping short of touching either of them.

If Hopeless was unconscious then he was resting, kind of, and not in pain, maybe, and Valkyrie and Saracen could handle it; and he wouldn’t want Erskine to leave Skulduggery. Not like this.

Skulduggery’s back shuddered. “Ravel said —”

“He was right.”

“We won?”

“We won,” said Ghastly quietly. “We won, Skulduggery.”

Skulduggery shuddered again, and the sound he made was a twisted choking noise. “Liliya — Angela —?”

Ghastly lifted his face, and every scar made his grief more prominent, even though it was the old resigned sort. It had never been made so fresh before. “They’re dead.”

This time the sound was a wrenching keen of grief, not even remotely hidden by Ghastly’s shoulder. Erskine turned around and stationed himself between them and the rest of the courtyard, the way they all had the day Ghastly’s mother had died, and couldn’t remotely see details in the shift of movement past the tears. That was what the air was for.

He had no orders, nothing to say. He couldn’t think, he couldn’t command; he couldn’t even begin to wonder why and how Skulduggery could be here, like this. Someone else would have to handle it.

But by Hopeless’s God, no one else was going to barge in to hurt them more if Erskine had anything to do about it.


	46. Full recovery

Valkyrie felt numb. Her entire body was a sack of rigid potatoes, or something else that should have been funny but wasn’t. It was the kind of exhaustion she’d felt after the golf club massacre. She really could have done without feeling it again.

They were in the Hibernian — pretty much all of them. Not totally all in the same room. The Taoiseach had ordered the barracks to send an escort, to make sure they all got there safely, and Fletcher had brought the rest. Valkyrie vaguely remembered something about a magical doctor being a better fit than the base medical ward. Whoever had said that was probably right.

It might have been her. She might have been the one who said that.

Saracen was slumped against the wall by one of the beds with his hand across his eyes, looking very pale. It was the same look Hopeless got when he was having a migraine. Did Saracen’s magic cause migraines? Valkyrie didn’t know.

Anton and Rover were sitting over on the end of one of the beds in the room. Well, Rover was sitting in Anton’s lap, with Anton’s head on his shoulder. Valkyrie didn’t know who’d done that first, except that Anton wasn’t arguing. He wasn’t hugging Rover back, either. His fingers were all bandaged from being split by the gist’s claws.

Hopeless was asleep on the bed next to Saracen, his face pressed into one of the pillows and head covered by the other one. He’d woken up briefly to smile painfully and then fallen properly asleep. Erskine was sitting on Hopeless’s other side.

And Ghastly was standing stationary by the door, staring out into the hall. Valkyrie wasn’t sure if that was because there was no one else to guard it, or not. Tesseract hadn’t been released yet. Valkyrie’s chest panged whenever she thought of it. Because she’d done that, because she’d obeyed Skulduggery’s request, Skulduggery had …

She looked around the room again.

No one was talking.

It sounded loud.

“Is it just me,” said Valkyrie, “or is this starting to become a habit?”

At first no one answered. Then Ghastly stirred and looked back at her, and it was a little reassuring, even though it was empty and forced. “It’s definitely starting to be a habit.”

“How many more times can we stand this?” Saracen asked without lifting his face from his hand, and the small kernel of hope in Valkyrie’s chest shrivelled. “How many more times will we have to —”

He sat upright suddenly, but only to punch the wall. Valkyrie jumped. Hopeless didn’t even stir. Saracen slumped like he’d deflated, like that brief surge of bitter frustration was all he had left. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” said Valkyrie quietly, even though her heart was still pounding.

“You don’t have to be here, you know,” said Erskine softly. “School’s out. You should — go see your friends.”

Valkyrie looked around at them all, at how _tired_ they were. Was there more grey in Anton’s hair than there had been? Probably.

It made her chest ache. How many times had the Dead Men had to save the world? It wasn’t fair. Why didn’t anyone help them? Why didn’t anyone else step in?

She would. They all would. She’d make sure of it. She was done with sitting around waiting for someone else to save her.

“I called them,” she said. “Mac Dara’s pretty far. I don’t know when they’ll get here, but they will.” She looked down at the other bed in the room, the one _she_ was sitting next to. In it, Gail’s breathing was even and her face was relaxed, and for the first time in two years she didn’t have a sigil on her forehead to keep her asleep.

The Dead Men hadn’t even fought her pushing them into this room. She wasn’t sure they’d even noticed, actually. But —

Valkyrie hadn’t wanted to wait alone. And she thought, maybe, it would help … just a little. When the others got here — maybe it’d all help, having someone else around, and not just them.

“Well,” said Ghastly, turning with a slightly truer smile, “at least one of them is here now.”

Valkyrie looked up, and in through the door came Dexter, and Farley, and Fletcher. Dexter came first mostly because he was in the wheelchair Farley was pushing, but Fletcher was staggering eyes dazed and leaning heavily on Farley’s shoulder.

“Someone take him,” said Farley with a grunt, and Ghastly hooked his arm under Fletcher’s back and scooped him up.

“Hey,” Fletcher protested weakly as Ghastly carried him over to the bed on Valkyrie’s other side. “I can walk.”

“You’ve been leaning on me for six halls,” said Farley, “and you absolutely missed the main hall when you brought us in. You’re buggered.”

“Shut up,” Fletcher muttered, and sprawled with a groan on the bed Ghastly put him on.

“They’ve been having marital troubles since Fletcher came to pick us up,” said Dexter, in a voice that would be undertone, if he sounded like he could be bothered. He looked up at Rover, at Anton, and held out his arms. “Hey. Hey. Where’s mine?”

“To be honest, I think they’re both asleep,” said Ghastly, moving over to prod Rover in the shoulder. Rover started awake with a snort and a sleepy activation noise, blinking with his hair ruffled. Anton grunted and didn’t even remotely move.

“Special delivery,” said Farley, getting one arm under Dexter’s back and helping him get up and ease onto the bed. Dexter made that difficult, because he changed which way he was going to be facing at the last minute, and Valkyrie laughed as Farley grunted, shifted under Dexter’s weight, and finally got him settled.

Dexter leaned back against Anton and Rover, and rested his head against Anton’s shoulder, and smiled up at them. “Hey.”

Slowly, like the dawning sun, realisation crossed Rover’s face, and he beamed down at Dexter, but softly, like he was afraid his usual level of exuberance might make something fragile break. “Hey, you.”

“The professor said he’d put together some things for him,” said Farley, rubbing his face. “After he’s looked at, you know, everyone else. Doc Synecdoche had everyone injured in the Sanctuary invasion brought here. It sounded like the facilities at the Sanctuary weren’t much good anymore. Or much of the Sanctuary at all.”

“How many?” Valkyrie asked.

“Dunno yet,” said Farley, coming over to sit next to her. There weren’t any chairs left, so he sat on the cabinet against the wall. “I’ll go to help out in a minute. I heard Guild barking orders, though, so I guess he’s okay.”

Fletcher raised his hand without lifting his face from his pillow. “Left Bliss back with the Taoiseach.”

“We’ve got a full government, then,” said Erskine, “if not a place to govern from.” He leaned his head back against the wall and let out a long slow exhale that made him slump. “Good. That’s good. For a while there I was worried one of us would have to step up.”

“Is it just me, or is that kind of odd, though?” Dexter said thoughtfully, and Saracen groaned.

“We’re talking politics now?”

“All I’ve had to do over the past few hours is sleep and think, Rue,” said Dexter, “so, yes, I’m wondering, and I haven’t had anyone to talk to. Why invade the Temple, and _then_ the Sanctuary, and bugger off the moment Macha got there? Were they looking for something, or what?”

“We’ll find out when Guild tells us if there’s anything missing,” said Ghastly flatly from back over by the door, “and not a moment before, and we’ll ask the necromancers about their stuff later. We’re not going to go around borrowing responsibility, Dex. Not now.”

Dexter nodded. “Okay. Then how about this: Are we still having the Requiem Ball?”

Fletcher lifted his head, and Valkyrie swallowed the laugh at the sight of his hair sticking up in the back, in a way he absolutely didn’t mean to make happen. … She was pretty sure. Sometimes it was hard to tell, with his hair.

“ _That’s_ what you’re worried about?” Fletcher demanded. “A _party_?”

“Well, yeah,” said Dexter with a shrug that had him sliding sideways until Anton wrapped his arm around his chest to keep him there. “Personally, I feel like we all need to cut loose a bit, remember the victories we’ve had …”

“You want to use the _Requiem Ball_ to remember victories?” Valkyrie asked. “Isn’t that, like, the total opposite of the meaning? Requiem?”

“We can re-market it,” said Dexter.

Anton stirred, and slowly lifted his head from Rover’s shoulder. “He’s right.”

“Do mine ears deceive me?” Erskine asked without lifting his head or even opening his eyes, but when Valkyrie glanced over she saw a faint smile on his face. “Is Anton Shudder agreeing that some frivolity is _necessary_?”

“The future isn’t a dirge,” said Anton, “and this isn’t what I build the Hotel for. Perhaps we’ve all spent a little too long remembering, and not enough time looking ahead.”

“With the Sanctuary destroyed, who’s going to re-market it, then?” asked Saracen. “Let alone _host_ it. I don’t know about you lot, but _I’m_ not filthy stinking rich.” 

“One of us is,” said Erskine, and lifted his hand only to point theatrically down at Hopeless. “I bet we could talk him into spending some of Meritorious’s money.”

“I don’t know,” said Saracen. “I’m not sure how I feel about talking him into blowing my inheritance on a single party. Isn’t that the definition of fiscal irresponsibility?”

“Inheritance?” Fletcher echoed, and Saracen flapped his hand.

“I am the baby of the group.”

“Hey,” Valkyrie objected.

“You’re not part of the group,” said Saracen. “You’re too —” He waved his hand again and glanced around vainly. “— I don’t know, help me out here, someone.”

“Nope,” Rover informed him cheerfully. “We’re all just going to watch you dig your nice, deep hole all on your lonesome.”

“He needs the exercise,” said Anton, and Saracen scowled.

“Hey.”

“Kenspeckle’s coming,” said Ghastly quietly, and moved further into the room. Kenspeckle came in ahead of Pandora at a brisk energetic pace, and glanced around the room with a frown, his gaze landing on Farley.

“There you are, boy. Where have you been?”

“St James’s,” said Farley.

“Right,” said Kenspeckle, as if he’d forgotten all about the city’s crisis in the excitement of the last half-hour. He scowled down at the huddle of limbs Dexter was a part of. “Well, take a break and then get down stairs. Reverie will need all the help she can get, since apparently _my_ laboratory is the only stable hospital the Sanctuary has, _again_.”

“Will in a bit,” said Farley.

Kenspeckle grunted. “Good. I’d better go and make sure Clarabelle has remembered to start some of the machines I need to look at Vex. Don’t do anything strenuous.”

“I’m not,” Dexter protested. “I’m lying here, doing nothing strenuous at all.”

“With you lot, just sitting up could be lethal,” said Kenspeckle darkly, and swept out of the room past Pandora.

“How’s Skulduggery?” asked Ghastly with barely restrained impatience, and Pandora smiled at him, patting his arm.

“He’ll be fine,” she said.

“Aside from being alive when he’s supposed to be dead,” said Rover.

“Aside from that, yes,” Pandora admitted, but her smile didn’t go away, although it did dim a little, as though she’d realised her enthusiasm was, perhaps, a little inappropriate. She turned toward Valkyrie. “Your hypothesis was correct, by the way. Someone _has_ messed with Skulduggery’s names.”

Just like that, almost everyone in the room seemed to sit up, even Fletcher, who mostly just rolled onto his back.

“How?” Ghastly asked directly, looking a little lost.

“The only way anyone could have done it to someone with a taken name is with their true name,” said Pandora, and Valkyrie’s heart lurched so hard she felt sick.

‘Mevolent has the book of names,’ Saracen signed to the room, and only moving his fingers as much as he needed to, as if that would stop Pandora, Fletcher or Farley from understanding any more than they already couldn’t.

“Why would anyone do that?” Valkyrie asked, sounding as sick as she felt. “I mean, if you were going to use a living skeleton’s true name, why — why make him _alive_ again? What’s the _point_?”

It had to have been Mevolent, but — in that case, why not use Skulduggery as some kind of weapon?

“Death flinched,” said Ghastly hollowly. “While we were fighting him, his power suddenly just — cut in half. That was when Saracen ordered the sigils activated.”

“I didn’t know why it’d work,” said Saracen. “I just knew that it would.”

“Wait,” said Erskine, rubbing his face. “Are you saying that — someone — was trying to _help_ us? That bringing back Skulduggery was meant to cut power to the armour?”

“Whatever Vile did to him,” said Ghastly steadily, “the armour has always been more powerful when Skulduggery is nearby. By somehow trying to — erase his death —”

His voice cracked and he felt silent, looking as if he was about to cry.

“Stopping the armour,” said Anton, “versus a weapon that may not be able to be controlled, and for which the judicious, secretive plotter may not have any use. It isn’t a use of true name anyone would expect. That’s what makes the user so powerful.”

Someone. The user. They were dancing around saying Mevolent, around talking about Vile openly — it took Valkyrie a few minutes to realise _why_ , that Farley and Fletcher both looked a little confused. 

Wait. Valkyrie sat up. “Doesn’t someone have to do that in person? If Wreath was in Skulduggery’s skeleton at the time —”

“I asked,” said Ghastly roughly. “He remembers parts about what happened, but not everything, and not that.”

“Damn,” Erskine muttered, and Valkyrie slumped. Wreath was in the Hibernian too; just down the hall. They’d heard the Taoiseach’s people and the necromancers setting it up, and China’s voice sweet. But if he couldn’t remember anything, then …

Ghastly took a deep shuddering breath, and turned toward Pandora. “Can you do something about it?” He sounded so tremulous that Valkyrie’s heart flipped over again. “Something to — make sure Skulduggery’s name will be safe?”

“It’s a tough one,” Pandora admitted. “Theoretically, now that he has a heart we could seal it, but the problem is that this in itself is a twist of his name. If we sealed his name now, I don’t know what would happen. It wouldn’t be his natural state of being, and it might prevent him from returning to how he was, if he ever wanted to. I’d recommend against it until I know more.”

“Then there’s nothing to be done,” said Ghastly, more defeated than Valkyrie had ever heard him, because at the very worst — 

At the very worst time, he’d never said anything at all. This wasn’t that. At least like this, they were all together, no matter how many of them were half or actually unconscious.

Pandora shook head her. “Not at all. I have something else in mind. It’s still experimental, but thanks to my research in the past six months I’m a lot more confident in its effects and versatility. It does mean we’d be using him for a guinea pig.”

There was a breath of a moment where they all processed that, and then Ghastly sucked in a breath. “How? What? What do you need — whatever it is, do it.”

“There’s some consent issues involved —” Pandora began.

“I don’t care, do it,” said Ghastly immediately. “I speak for him, I always have. I may not have that on paper, but he’s —” His voice went thick. “— he’s my brother, I give you permission.”

“… Okay,” said Pandora, and patted his arm again, and this time her smile seemed a bit watery on its own. “So, I don’t know how much you know about what we’ve been doing on the Tír —”

“Something about names,” said Ghastly automatically. “If Erskine and Dex and Valkyrie will know what you’re talking about, that’s good enough for me.”

Pandora nodded. “Okay. Then, essentially, what we’re going to do is put a cage, of sorts, around Skulduggery’s true-name, and lock it. See, we don’t know what it is, and looking will make the situation worse — so the best we can do is make sure no one _else_ can mess with it, even the person who did this to him.”

“Will it —” Ghastly swallowed. “Will it — put him back to how he was?”

“No,” said Pandora simply. “It won’t change what’s already been done; only accessing his true-name will do that.”

“What about this lock?” Dexter asked, trying to push himself up a little until Anton got his shoulder under his back and propped him up. “You don’t have locks without keys.”

“Right,” said Pandora. “It’ll be a keyword, a special word, or a phrase; and it’ll have to go to someone with his best interests in mind, someone he trusts implicitly —”

“I’ll do it,” said Ghastly.

“I think you’re the only one who can,” said Erskine grimly, and motioned at the rest of them. “He knew my face, but he didn’t know _me_ — he’s not going to know or trust the rest of us. The only other person who could do it is Hopeless, and …”

He stopped and shrugged. For one thing, Hopeless wasn’t conscious — awake. Hopeless wasn’t _awake_. For another, giving him that to worry about on top of everything else was the last thing any of them wanted to do.

“Then I’m doing it,” said Ghastly again. “What — what do I need to do?”

“Pick a word or a phrase,” said Pandora, “something that means something to the both of you, something you’d never say by accident, ever. Saying it to him would unlock the cage and then whoever has his name would be able to do whatever they wanted again. Of course, by the same token, you’d need to unlock the cage in the event we were ever able to reverse what was done to him — so it’s the most versatile option.” She smiled at him. “Come find me when you’re ready.”

She turned and left the room, and Ghastly took a very deep breath and made to go after her, when Erskine said, “Wait.” Ghastly stopped and turned, and Erskine grimaced. “Listen. I don’t know if this is the right thing, but under the circumstances I don’t think there’s any way around it. You might have noticed we’ve all been a bit shirty at China lately —”

“No kidding,” said Valkyrie, but none of the Dead Men laughed.

“I’ve noticed,” said Ghastly quietly.

“I overheard her talking to Scorn a while back,” said Erskine, “and she’d pretty clearly told Scorn ‘no’, or something to that effect, which I’m telling you mostly so you know that Scorn had no reason to lie.”

He stopped again, and blew out a breath.

“Lie about what?” Ghastly asked evenly.

“China’s the one who lured Skulduggery’s family into the trap,” said Erskine tightly, and Ghastly stiffened. Given how many muscles he had, that was a lot of body to stiffen. Valkyrie knew how he felt, because just like that she felt like every part of her body had locked up except her pounding heart.

“To get her to come back and help, we — the lot of us — had to promise not to kill her. We gave ourselves some wiggle room — she didn’t make us promise on _your_ behalf, as long as you didn’t know. Even China’s smart enough to realise that she’d need you to hold Skulduggery back if he ever did find out. But if Skulduggery’s last memories are Serpine, then …”

“I know,” said Ghastly tightly. “He can’t know. He can never, ever know.”

“And you can’t kill her,” said Erskine bitterly. “None of us can.”

“I won’t kill her,” said Ghastly so darkly that a shiver ran up Valkyrie’s spine. “If I catch her, I won’t be _killing_ her.”

He left then, and Valkyrie exhaled shakily, and clasped her trembling hands together to make them stop doing that.

“Woah,” said Fletcher, staring wide-eyed at the door. “I didn’t know he could — you know …”

“Pull an —” Valkyrie looked around. “Actually, I don’t know which of you that was.”

“Anton,” said Erskine.

“Erskine,” said Anton.

They looked at each other, and Dexter snickered, and Valkyrie laughed harder than necessary, out of sheer relief. For the first time she was almost grateful Dexter’s sense of emotional appropriateness was on the fritz — and then immediately felt guilty for thinking it.

“You’re much scarier than I am,” Erskine said to Anton.

“I,” said Anton, “am not the man who, after two days of insomnia, almost drowned an ally for implying Corrival liked little boys.”

Erskine scowled. “He deserved it.”

Valkyrie put up her hand. “Can we vote? Because just for that I’m voting Erskine.”

“Oy!”

“I don’t know,” said Dexter thoughtfully. “Rover after Erskine and I did that really stupid thing was pretty scary.”

“Erskine,” Saracen said. “It’s definitely Erskine.”

“Oy,” Rover protested, and then stopped. “Wait. Why am I offended by that? That’s not fair. That’s uncalled-for. Anyway, you cheat.”

Saracen lifted his head for the first time since Pandora had come in, smiled, and tapped his nose. Rover scowled and blew a raspberry. “Meaniehead. Don’t make me make it into a song, cos I will.”

Valkyrie sat back, laughing quietly, and Farley’s phone alarm went off.

“That’s me having to go,” said Farley, and glanced at the Dead Men, who had begun arguing about Rover’s rhyming capabilities. Valkyrie grinned. It was better than silence. It was much, much better. “Listen …”

Valkyrie dragged her gaze back to Farley. “What? I’ll tell the others Kenspeckle’s evading labour laws, don’t worry.”

He almost smiled, then glanced behind her at Fletcher, for some reason; and then squared his shoulders. “Look. If the Requiem Ball is still on, d’you want to go with me?”

Fletcher sat up so fast the bed creaked, and Valkyrie blinked. “I will be going with you. We’ll all be going together.”

“Yeah,” said Farley tersely. “I know that. I’m asking if you’d go — with _me_. You know, like — on a date.”

“ _Hey,_ ” Fletcher burst out, so loudly that Valkyrie was distracted from Farley’s question by having to rub her aching ear. “I was gonna ask her!” He what. Valkyrie looked at him incredulously and he went red to the roots of his hair and hunched, mumbling, “Well, I was.”

“Yeah, well, you didn’t,” said Farley flatly. “I did. So?”

Were they _serious_. Valkyrie felt hysterical laughter bubbling up. She stuffed her fist to her mouth and it did _nothing_ , and instead she bend inward laughing until she wheezed.

“See,” said Fletcher triumphantly. “She thinks it’s a stupid idea. She should go with me.”

“Shut — up —” Valkyrie managed, and pressed her face to her knees to laugh some more until the sight of Farley’s stony face made the laughter cut off, very suddenly and all at once. She took a few deep breaths and straightened up, wiping the tears of laughter out of her eyes. “I’m not going to the Ball with _either_ of you.”

“What?” said Fletcher, startled.

“Why not?” demanded Farley. They looked at each other and Valkyrie couldn’t help but laugh again. At least she managed to get control of it faster this time, but — they both looked so much alike for just a moment there.

God, how long had this been going on? One of them should have said something earlier. She hadn’t even noticed.

_You sure noticed Farley’s face earlier, though,_ pointed out the part of her that wasn’t _totally_ oblivious, and that helped turn off the laughter. She cleared her throat and shook her head.

“Come _on_. Someone’s attacking the Sanctuary — someone’s attacking _Ireland_ , not to mention the _Dead Men_ , directly. I’m their apprentice — and more than that, we’re the next generation of sorcerers in the country. Things are changing, and we’re the ones who are gonna lead the charge. _And_ I still have to go to school, for capital-R Reasons.” She rolled her eyes. “You think I’m going to have time to think about dating? Please. I don’t need that kind of complication.”

“Well, maybe not _now_ ,” said Fletcher hopefully, “but in a year or two …?”

“Then ask me in a year or two,” said Valkyrie, “but no guarantees.” She turned to Farley. “And anyway, it’d change the dynamics of the group. Whatever’s going to happen — and stuff _is_ happening — we’re going to have to face that together. I can’t _imagine_ trying to figure out _relationships_ while that’s going on, can you?”

“That’s fair,” said Farley grudgingly.

“What about me,” Fletcher protested. “I’m not part of your group.”

Valkyrie rolled her eyes. “Yeah, but you should be, dumbass. No one ever handles things well when they’re alone.”

“I’m not even _Irish_!”

“Stop coming around then,” said Valkyrie, and he pulled back to sulk against the bed’s headboard.

Farley’s alarm went off again, and he squeezed his phone, and looked at her. “I’ll see if I can drop by in an hour or two, then.”

Valkyrie waggled her fingers at him as he left, and looked around the room again. The very quiet room, full of smirks, smiles, and in Anton’s case a raised eyebrow.

“Ah, young love,” Rover sighed, and Valkyrie scowled.

“Shut up, what would you know? You and Dex were in denial for, like, three centuries.”

“Hey,” Dexter said. “It was only one.” He paused. “Maybe.”

“More like two,” said Erskine, grinning. Valkyrie looked at him and the way he was leaning on Hopeless’s bed, and rolled her eyes, but said nothing — about that, anyway.

“Yeah, well, my point is that two teenage boys are more mature than you. What’re you gonna do about it?”

“Ruffle his hair, definitely,” said Dexter. Fletcher’s eyes widened and his hands flew protectively up to his head.

Rover nodded. “Yep. This is absolutely an IOU to mess up Fletcher’s hair.”

“No!”

“And heckle Farley whenever he comes by my hospital bed,” Dexter added. “It’s our duty as big brothers and-or uncle figures. Or whatever. We need to know they can handle us. Don’t worry, we’ll make Anton leave Daisy behind. _That_ would be _rude_. We’re not barbarians.”

He was talking too much. Valkyrie was pretty sure he was trying to make up for the whole ‘not feeling’ thing, but she couldn’t tell if they’d come back or not, because of it — and maybe that was the point. Instead she just grinned. “Goons.”

“You always say that,” Rover said. “I don’t think it means what you think it means.” He perked up suddenly. “Ooh, since we’re all in here anyway, how about a movie night?”

Saracen groaned. “The Princess Bride _again_?”

“It’s a classic!”

“We _always_ watch it!”

Valkyrie sat back and listened to them arguing, and Fletcher shook his head disbelievingly.

“As if I’d have trouble handling _them_ after everything they’ve put me through,” he muttered, and Valkyrie laughed, and basked in the argument across the way.


	47. The not-Requiem Ball

Valkyrie drifted through the crowd at Gordon’s house, smiling when someone greeted her but refusing to be pulled into a conversation. There were a lot of Sanctuary people here — apparently having their workplace invaded and rendered uninhabitable meant a lot of them didn’t have much to do with themselves except get invited to parties that were going to be thrown no matter what.

It wasn’t only sorcerers there. Valkyrie’s parents had passed, citing parental duties, but over by the drinks table Valkyrie saw Minister Kavanagh. Covering the entrances and exits along with the cleavers was a mix of nervous, wide-eyed garda in plainclothes, and some teams from the Tír who Valkyrie didn’t know offhand. Modeste was gorgeous in a ball-gown being chatted up by half the men in the place and Bev was in a corner deep in conversation with Donegan Bane and waving one of her gadgets around, but Xun was in a uniform and seemed to be patrolling upstairs, so Valkyrie honestly wasn’t sure whether their team was guarding or attending. Maybe Xun just wasn’t in a mingling mood. Digger was around, somewhere, making the most of her sunglasses and her cane.

Valkyrie spotted Gordon across the floor, having the time of his life in the middle of a group of fans. She scanned the group, but didn’t see Tanith. She’d dropped by earlier to say hi and report to Erskine and Hopeless, but the most she’d been able to say to Valkyrie was lament that she’d missed out on all the action and that there was an errand she needed to run. Valkyrie hadn’t asked. The only errand Tanith would run on a night like this was for Ghastly.

In a corner of the room, over by the stairs, Saracen caught her attention and nodded. He waited until she signed back confirmation, and then she saw him making his way through the crowd to Elders Cothernus Ode and Illori Reticent. They were the only Elders from other nations who’d made it — everyone else cited logistical issues.

Some Grand Mages hadn’t even bothered. Bisahalani hadn’t shown up. Valkyrie was pretty sure everyone was relieved about that, even while she was disappointed she didn’t get to see him facing off with Hopeless in person.

She turned away from watching Saracen and wound her way through the crowd until she found Ifrit by the buffet table, right where she figured he’d be. Ghastly had finished their clothes after all, and he looked pretty good in a suit, with his hair tamed. No hiding the freckles, though.

“Thank you,” she said with a grin.

“For what?” he asked, looking up from carefully stacking food onto his plate. The plates were small, and it was already at risk of overflowing.

“Being predictable,” she said. “Help me out — Hopeless wants us in one of the other rooms.”

“The Grand Mage?” Ifrit demanded, his eyes bulging a little. “Why? Why us? It’s not about the whole dinosaur thing, right? We weren’t even there.”

Valkyrie shook her head, laughing. “Kara and Natalie are probably on the dance floor. You find Farley and Fletcher.”

“They’re probably arguing again,” Ifrit grumbled. “No offence, but you’re not all that.”

Valkyrie grinned at him. “Yeah, but you think Fletcher’s pretty cool, don’t you?”

His freckles became more prominent as his face shaded red. “Shut up. I’ll go find them.”

He took his food with him, and Valkyrie strolled laughing into the crowd. Music was playing and people were dancing, and Rover had definitely made Valkyrie learn how. She’d sulked at the time but she appreciated it now, because somehow she’d kept having people coming up and asking her to dance.

She’d thought not wearing a dress would stop people from doing that. Apparently the suit just made her more alluring or something.

Kara was dancing with Rover, laughing and pink-cheeked and looking pretty great in the dress she’d been agonising over, which was pretty standard for Rover and Ghastly both. She’d been the one most afraid to get onto the floor, which was why Rover had declared her his cuddlebug for the night. _He_ looked unfairly good in a suit. _Unfairly_ good. Someone all nervous energy and gangles shouldn’t clean up that well, and Valkyrie had definitely seen Dexter seeing it earlier, too.

Valkyrie waited until Rover was facing her and then signed, and Rover pouted at her and said something to Kara. Shrugging theatrically at him, Valkyrie moved around the edges of the dance-floor to find Natalie, and spotted her — dancing with China.

Something cold gripped Valkyrie’s insides and she slid past attendees to a position where she could see Natalie’s face. She _looked_ okay — looked it — but ever since Erskine had said what China did, Valkyrie had found it really easy not to be taken in by her magic. It was easy to look at a snake and see a snake.

She waved and Natalie’s eyes shifted, and they didn’t look dazed — thank _God_ — so Valkyrie signed at her, ‘The drawing-room’ and waited for her to nod. She was too far to hear whatever she said to China before they slowed, and Valkyrie glared daggers at China’s back as she laughed and patted Natalie’s cheek before swanning into the crowd in search of another partner.

“What’s going on?” Natalie demanded as they met on the edge of the dance-floor, and Kara squeezed her way past to join them, looking breathless.

“Hopeless wants to see us,” Valkyrie said shortly.

“What’s with the look you were giving China?”

Valkyrie couldn’t help but glance over her shoulder, her back prickling as if China might be standing right there, and took both their elbows to move them toward the drawing-room. “Let’s just say I know some things that make me hate her a little. Or a lot. What were _you_ talking to her about?”

“Martial sigils,” said Natalie. “There’s some jumps and acrobatics I want to nail without needing trampolines and stuff like that, but I’m having trouble getting there just with magic. I thought she might be able to tell me more about how sigils work as tattoos.”

“Anton and Rover might be able to help with that,” said Valkyrie shortly, and Natalie shrugged.

“The Dead Men have been pretty busy, and neither of them are sigil masters.”

It was, Valkyrie forced herself to acknowledge, probably Natalie’s way of saying she didn’t want to bother them while things were going on. It was Natalie being _nice_. Just because it also made Valkyrie’s heart hammer didn’t change that.

“I’ll hook you up with a sigil-mason from —” She checked herself.

“A sigil-mason?” Kara asked curiously. “What’s that?”

“I’ll tell you in about an hour,” said Valkyrie, and steered them toward the drawing-room, where Ifrit was waiting with his half-empty plate, and Farley and Fletcher were glaring at each other. None of them seemed to want to go in, which was fair, because as they approached Rover appeared out of the crowd with the Australian Grand Mage in tow. What was his name again? Karrik.

“No, really,” Rover was saying earnestly as he waved at Valkyrie with dance of fingers, “it really works, I swear.”

“I’ve found the methods belonging to my mother’s people to be sufficient,” said Karrik, and nodded toward the club as he passed, in the manner of someone not really noticing someone beneath them.

“I bet Digger could weigh in,” said Rover. “Have you met her yet?”

“I have, in fact. I’m very curious about where she’s —”

They passed through the doors, and their conversation got lost in the curious chatter of the handful inside.

“Okay,” said Valkyrie. “We’re the last ones. In you go.”

“In _there_?” Ifrit looked nervously into the drawing-room. It was full of Grand Mages and Elders, and other _very_ important people.

“In there,” said Valkyrie firmly, and before Farley could open his mouth she herded them all inside and pulled the doors shut, pressing her hand to the lock to active the privacy sigils Anton had added to them earlier today. She glanced back, looking for the other door, and spotted Tesseract closing them and the wards going up.

Tesseract turned, saw her looking, and gave her the dirtiest look possible for someone wearing a mask. Valkyrie shrugged apologetically. It wasn’t like he’d been _hurt_ or anything.

“What are you doing?” Kara asked, sounding very nervous, and glancing around the room. “Why’s my _mum_ in here?”

She was. She was in the corner, chatting to Kenny Dunne, and they were both wearing the expressions of reporters who knew they were about to get the biggest scoops of their career. They weren’t the only ones who knew something was going on: everyone in the room had to know it. Not all the Grand Mages who were at the Ball were in here — not even most of them, actually. Just the ones Erskine thought were safe.

“Is that the _Taoiseach_?” Natalie asked, staring. Valkyrie didn’t have to look, but she did, and saw him deep in conversation with Governor Chiabuoto. She’d seen them talking together earlier tonight, too. Looked like they’d taken off well. That was good. Chiabuoto wasn’t going to be governor for much longer, but it’d be a good legacy.

“Yeah, it is,” said Fletcher, and everyone but Valkyrie stared at him. “He’s a pretty cool guy, I met him a few days ago.”

“He _is_ a pretty cool guy,” Valkyrie agreed, and now they stared at _her_. She grinned. “What? I’m going places.” She lost the grin, very fast, and it felt like she was turning it off with a click. She really hoped that meant she was getting better at compartmentalising, and not something really bad. “Listen. Something important’s about to happen, okay?”

She signalled to Erskine, over by the far wall. Erskine nodded at her, looking very grim and unhappy, and moved toward the front of the room.

“Then why are _we_ here?” Ifrit asked, moving his plate from one hand to another. He still had food on it, but even his bottomless pit could get sidetracked by nervousness. Not Natalie’s, though. She reached out and took a cupcake off his plate, her gaze still wandering around the room.

“There’s five Grand Mages in here,” she said, “and the Taoiseach, and the two English Elders, and most of the Dead Men … and _our_ Elders. And a reporter — two reporters. Why _are_ we here?”

“Because Hopeless wants you here,” said Valkyrie, and then added, “and because I thought it’d be good if you were.”

“Is this related to that stuff you were saying the other day?” Farley asked. “About sticking together?”

“Yep,” said Valkyrie simply.

“And about whatever you and your cousin’s boyfriend were trying _not_ to say?”

Valkyrie’s cheeks warmed. “You noticed that?”

“Everybody noticed that,” said Natalie, and unexpectedly Valkyrie felt a surge of fond warmth. They’d all noticed, but none of them said anything. That was — it was _something_.

Hopeless got up and tapped on the table. Conversation died around the room as everyone turned expectantly toward him, but no one took seats. There were enough seats for everyone. They’d made sure of it, just in case someone needed to sit down in a hurry.

Valkyrie watched Hopeless closely. His eyes were crinkled, but it was hard to tell whether that was a smile, or something else.

“Thank you all for being here,” he said, and for the first time that night he didn’t bother trying to move his lips while he spoke. Valkyrie saw a few people frown with confusion, and Kara’s mum quietly get out a large notebook she held open in her hands like someone in a choir. “You’ll notice not all nations are represented here. That’s because the people in this room are people that I, personally, trust.”

As he spoke he looked at each person in the face. It was a thing he did that made anyone he looked at smile back, almost unfailingly. Even the people in the back, like them, he looked over the heads of others to acknowledge them, and Valkyrie hid a smile at the way Ifrit hunched sheepishly and Kara waved uncertainly.

“He trusts _us_?” she whispered.

“Shush,” said Farley, his voice low and his gaze on Hopeless.

“What I want to tell you tonight,” said Hopeless, “is, I think, amazing and wonderful, and also terrifying beyond belief.” There was a scattering of laughter, and he smiled wryly, and held out his hand. Valkyrie lifted herself up a bit using air, and saw it trembling. “You laugh, but I feel like Shudder right now.”

Somewhere on the other end of the crowd, Anton grunted, and the laughter this time was slightly more nervous.

“The fact is,” said Hopeless, “I’m terrified. Because the first of — several — things I have to tell you tonight relates to my magic, and how it works.” 

Without looking over Valkyrie nudged Ifrit’s side, and murmured, “Breathe.”

Hopeless’s smile seemed more tremulous than before, and just as terrified as he’d said. “All I ask is that you don’t immediately leave this room to tell everyone outside — though I can’t stop you from doing so.” Anton grunted again, and Hopeless amended: “That is — I _won’t_ stop you. Just know that in a few moments, each and every one of you will hold my life in your hands, in a very literal sense.”

The room was so quiet you could hear a pin drop, and Valkyrie _did_ , as someone put down their drink not as quietly as they hoped. Hopeless took a deep breath.

“I’m a mind-reader,” he said, “a natural-born mind-reader.” He paused, and nodded. “And some of you are already relaxing, because you’re familiar with mind-reading as something that needs contact, sleep, and concentration. I don’t need any of that. None of it. I can hear, right now, the thoughts of everyone in this room. And in the mansion.” He paused. “Except Gordon’s.”

He turned toward the side, and someone scoffed, and Valkyrie saw Grand Mage Strom stop short, as if realising that Hopeless had turned to answer him before he’d even made a sound.

“Well,” said Strom, but less certain than he obviously meant to, “this is all very dramatic, Hopeless, but we all know that that kind of mind-reading isn’t possible. Why, you’d have gone mad.”

“It’s not like he’s constantly sick or anything,” Guild said dourly, and the man beside him chuckled. That was the Russian Grand Mage, Valkyrie thought. Dragunov. Everyone knew they were friends.

“Not to mention studying psychology since forever,” said Dexter. “Or really good at diplomacy, or walking so no one sees him coming, or —”

“I like to think I’m at least decently sane,” said Hopeless, and his eyes were a little creased with the pain of everyone’s disbelief. “Though not infallible, and just as subject to the same fears as anyone is. The truth is that tonight — this is all Thurid’s idea. So you’ll have to bear with me a little.”

“That’s lovely,” said Strom, “but this is all predicated on the fact that you, with all due respect to yourself as a Dead Man, don’t just have an inflated sense of yourself.”

Rover laughed. It sounded real, but in the sense of having daggers in it, and when Valkyrie glanced around she saw most of the Dead Men were wearing the same grim smiles. At least Dexter was sitting down, all loosely sprawled like he hadn’t just gotten out of the Hibernian yesterday.

Strom looked taken aback, and then rounded on Bliss, standing impassively nearby. “Really, I’m surprised you’re in on this, Bliss.”

“I suspected,” said Bliss, “when Baron Vengeous did something so out of character, it could only be in response to someone else pre-empting his plans. And then I saw the Grand Mage take on my persona, right before my eyes.”

“Take on your persona?” asked Ubuntu. He was the Grand Mage of the Sanctuary for the African nations, and almost as large as Bliss.

“Sometimes if I look too deeply, I forget who I am,” said Hopeless, “and become someone else. That’s why it’s important to have people around me who don’t all think the same way. Like Thurid.” He set down his cup of water, closing his eyes. It looked like he was trying to brace himself. “But we knew you’d want evidence. Someone in this room, right now, has _Bohemian Rhapsody_ stuck in their heads. You know who you are.”

Dragunov muttered a curse. Hopeless went on.

“Someone else in this room was listening to ABBA on the ride over. Don’t worry, I like them too.” He smiled, and opened his eyes, and his pupils were wide, so wide his eyes looked black. Kara squeaked; someone drew in a breath. “One of you was born in New Amsterdam — not the person you’d think. And one of you has tickets to see _Les Miserables_ at the West End tomorrow. I’ll try not to get in the way of that commitment. If you need more, I can thread someone’s thoughts through the device I’m using to talk to you. Only someone who’s willing.”

“As if anyone other than a Dead Man would volunteer!” Strom objected, sounding genuinely angry. “And that could easily be a set up!”

“I’ll do it,” said Farley unexpectedly. Hopeless’s face was already turned their way, but now it was followed by everyone else, and a lot of them were frowning. Or, in Strom’s face, outright scowling.

“What? Who are you? How do we know you’re not just a plant too?”

“I’m from the stag and the dove,” said Farley, and Ode’s face cleared, and he set a hand on Strom’s shoulder.

“I know him — the elder son they disowned last year. Terrible business.” He drank again, and his frown returned. “Very terrible business.”

Kara and Natalie were staring. “You were disowned?” Natalie asked. “I thought they just tossed you out.”

Farley scowled at them. “Shut up, it was private, okay? Turns out my parents only wanted kids who could do magic. Professor Grouse isn’t so bad.”

“ _Thank_ you,” Kenspeckle muttered from somewhere in a corner beyond the crowd. “If this is how you reward coming to ridiculous events like this, Hopeless, I might just come to the next.”

“Do you want me to come up there or something?” Farley asked Hopeless brusquely, crossing his arms and then uncrossing them. “I mean — Grand Mage.”

“No,” said Hopeless. “Stay right there. Think of something to think about, because I’m going to feed it through my thoughtspeaker.”

Farley was silent for a minute, and then he nodded. “Okay.”

Hopeless looked at him, and the thoughtspeaker hissed static, and then Farley’s voice came through loud and clear and brisk.

“Three point one four one five nine two six five three five eight nine _fu_ —”

The thoughtspeaker fuzzed static, Hopeless laughed silently, and Farley went crimson while half the room went pale.

“Well,” said Strom, and then he shook his head and drained his glass with a shaking hand. “ _Well._ ”

“He can test it on you if you’re not still convinced,” said Saracen with cutting cheer.

“I listened to ABBA,” said Kribu quietly. She was the Estonian Grand Mage, and slighter than the other Grand Mages, almost hidden between them; but her voice was the kind that carried. “I am convinced.”

“And I have the tickets to Les Miserables,” said Reticent.

“That information could have come from Rue,” said Strom unconvincingly. The whole room seemed to realise, as one being, that none of them knew _Saracen’s_ magic either, and turned to stare at him. He smiled at them brittlely and tapped his nose.

“Saracen isn’t a mind-reader,” said Hopeless, “but his magic and mine complement each other very well, and I’m not going to make him reveal anything he’s not comfortable with. Just know that I know everything he knows, and I didn’t need his help to know what I know about _you_.”

“If you’re trying to be reassuring —” Dragunov began.

“I’m not,” said Hopeless, and blew out a breath, and took the glass Erskine wordlessly held out to him without looking. “You’ll notice that the American Sanctuary didn’t send anyone tonight. That’s because Grand Mage Bisahalani and, I suspect, Elder Kerias both know, and neither of them dare to send anyone within a city of me.”

“Surprised Bisahalani didn’t try to have you killed,” Dragunov muttered, glancing speculatively over at Tesseract, who was standing arms-crossed by the other door.

“He tried,” said Hopeless. “I made Tesseract a better offer.”

“ _Tesseract_ —” Strom followed Dragunov’s gaze, appalled. “An offer for _what_?”

“To be my bodyguard,” said Hopeless simply, and went on while Strom was spluttering. “A number of you are starting to wonder why I’m telling you this now, after all this time. Well, the fact is that a lot of my enemies know, and none of my allies did, and Thurid pointed out how stupid that was. But more than that, very soon we’re going to be facing several threats, and Ireland can’t face them alone — even though Ireland will be the one at the heart of them.”

“To be fair,” said Ode with visible effort, “ _any_ of the Temples in any of our nations could have been the perpetrators of what happened in Dublin. Actually, I’ve been impressed with the speed and handling of your public relations team, despite the loss of the Sanctuary. As far as I can tell, you’ve kept things fairly well under wraps.”

Dexter laughed. Hopeless smiled slightly. “Not so much, Cothernus. Not so much. Fionn?” Fionn stood up and bowed toward the gathering. “This is the Taoiseach of Ireland. If there’s anyone’s public relations team working overtime, it’s his. Also his security team, whom you’d have seen patrolling the grounds along with our cleavers.”

Someone was making strangled noises. Valkyrie leaned back against the wall, and smiled to herself, and watched just in case anyone was going to make a play for the door.

“You invited mortals to the Requiem Ball?!” Strom exploded.

“Fionn’s known about magic since he ran for office,” said Erskine coolly. “Actually, the fact he was running for office is the _reason_ I told him.”

“ _You_ —” Strom rounded on Erskine, inarticulate with rage and disbelief. " _You?!_ You did this!? This — blatant flouting of the pact! And you, Grand Mage, you _let him_?!"

"Not only him," said Illori Reticent, and anything Strom had been about to say cut off hard, as if all the air had been stolen from him by some enterprising Elemental. Hell, maybe it had, and now Reticent was the centre of attention, so she went on. "A few years ago, Ravel came to be with a proposal. With a _purpose_. He told me he had a dream — that mortals and sorcerers could co-exist in full awareness of each other. And he said that he had proof it was possible."

"Proof?" said Strom weakly. "What _proof_? What kind of proof could possibly —" He cut off, shaking his head.

"That would be me," said Governor Chiabuoto, rising and smoothing down her dress, and every eye turned toward her. She bowed. “My name is Adaeze Chiabuoto. I am the governor of Tír Tairngire.” Someone was _definitely_ making strangled noises, and they sounded like someone different this time. “I have photographic proof that my city exists,” the governor went on, “just as Elder Reticent said. I myself am mortal; the next governor is likely to be a faery.”

“The old warhorse pretended he was too busy to come, didn’t he,” said Erskine with a roll of his eyes and a fond smile, and Chiabuoto’s lips compressed in a way that didn’t hide her amusement.

“He felt he’d get in the way. And, he said, you left him so much work to do on the subject of outreach that he couldn’t afford to put it down. Something about setting the Monster Hunters on the international scientific community.”

“You’re talking about Corrival Deuce,” said Ode in tones of startled realisation. “ _Corrival Deuce_ is part of this?”

“He’s been living on the Tír for the last — what?” Erskine glanced at Hopeless. “Four years? Does he know you’re fingering him for governor yet? Can I be there when you tell him?”

“You said,” Ubuntu interrupted, “you have pictures.”

“So I do.” The governor caught Valkyrie’s eye, but Valkyrie was already shoving a folder into Farley’s hands, trying not to grin _too_ madly. She moved around the room handing out the ‘welcome pack’ they — well, hadn’t really prepared for this occasion. It was a rush decision. But it was something that was given out to new, dazed arrivals, with some special pictures added.

And several of the people there definitely looked dazed.

“What —” Strom shook his head. “ _How?_ ”

“He’s right,” said Karrik. “A city of this size couldn’t be hidden. Ireland doesn’t have so much land as that.”

“It’s in the ocean,” said Erskine, “hidden by dimensional wards, and with interdimensional bridges in and out. Turns out shunters aren’t so useless after all. If I’m not mistaken, Grand Mage Dragunov, you’ve already seen something like this, haven’t you?”

He hadn’t been looking at Dragunov, but now he did, and Valkyrie followed his gaze. Dragunov didn’t look very surprised.

“Satellite imagery,” he said. “I think you know from whom.”

“Kerias,” said Erskine. “Elder Kerias. We had a little trouble with the dimensional wards a couple of years ago and the Americans got a few snapshots. We don’t know whether Bisahalani knows about it, but soon after Kerias approached Bliss with an offer.”

“What kind of offer?” Kribu asked.

“She represented a group of people who felt the Tír is a threat,” said Bliss.

“A group of people,” said Ode keenly. “ _Not_ the American Sanctuary?”

“She did not say whom,” said Bliss.

“So _not_ the American Sanctuary,” said Dexter from the corner.

“Do you not consider the Tír a threat, Elder Bliss?” Ubuntu asked, and Bliss inclined his head, but his icy blue gaze was on Hopeless.

“I do. However, the people who oppose it are also a threat. Grand Mage Hopeless and Ravel have given me enough reassurance to believe that their route will present less instability than others.”

For a long moment there was a long contemplative silence, and then Ode finally let out a breath. “Well. Apparently my fellow Elder is already on board —”

“It took some convincing,” Erskine muttered, and Reticent shot him a quick, dangerous smile.

“— but surely you aren’t telling us _all_ of this out of the goodness of your hearts. You mentioned enemies of Ireland.”

Quietly Valkyrie retreated to the corner where her friends were gathered, half sitting, half standing, all looking bug-eyed — except Fletcher. He grinned at her; she grinned back.

“I did,” said Hopeless, “because there are. Bisahalani is one of them; and apparently he’s going to convene a meeting of Sanctuaries in the interests of ‘stabilising’ Ireland.”

“As if Ireland could be any more stable than under the leadership of a man who _reads minds_ ,” Dragunov muttered, and Hopeless shot him a quick smile more gentle than Reticent’s had been.

“Bisahalani feels threatened,” he said, “threatened enough that he needed to be talked out of tricking the US government into dropping a bomb on Dublin — which was how a Sensitive saw the situation with Lord Vile’s armour might have ended.”

“Don’t blame them,” said Dragunov.

Hopeless shrugged. “To stop the armour, no, but we have recordings of him essentially admitting to being prepared to drop it anyway, and pretend he hadn’t realised we had a handle on the situation. They were recovered from the Sanctuary yesterday.”

“He called me during the debacle,” said Guild shortly, “to make _me_ an offer, to help me become Grand Mage if I backed him. Idiot.”

The last was muttered, and there was a scatter of nervous laughter.

“Was he the one who attacked the Sanctuary, then?” Karrik asked. “That makes no sense, if he had planned for a bomb.”

“We don’t think so,” said Hopeless. “We suspect the forces behind that attack are involved with Kerias’s group, and we suspect _that_ group is involved with Mevolent.”

“Mevolent’s dead,” said Strom with the confidence of a man who knew things for certain, right before he faltered. “You — _aren’t_ about to tell us that Mevolent is alive, are you?”

“We don’t know,” said Hopeless simply. “We’re sure he’s dead, but Sensitives have been seeing him. First Finbar Wrong. Then Cassandra Pharos. Now I’ve been told that others have been seeing implications of him in the very near future — not only in Ireland. Tanith Low investigated it for us when she was in England. And his forces, what remains of them, have been moving.”

“It’s true,” said Bliss. “The remains of the Diablerie have mustered. Eliza Scorn attempted to contact my sister. The Hollow Man factories have begun producing in numbers unnecessary for Sanctuary supply.”

“All that signals a preparation for war,” said Hopeless. He looked each one of them in the eye — the ones that looked back, anyway. “I know this is alarming — not just Mevolent, but me. Believe me, I know it. And I’m happy to explain further and answer any questions you might have. But war is looming again, and it’s the same one that’s been overhead ever since Mevolent rose to power centuries ago. Even tonight is nothing more than a reminder of its shadow.” Several people stirred. Hopeless continued to look at each one of them. Strom looked away. Dragunov frowned.

“I won’t stop any one of you from revealing my magic,” Hopeless continued, “because I refuse to be the kind of person who would use people’s private thoughts against them. But if you did it would probably signal the end to any chance we have of convincing Bisahalani and his allies that Mevolent is a pressing concern.” He held out his hands to the Grand Mages, simple and open. “So I’m asking you, as a friend, as well as a leader. Please, will you stand with Ireland?”

There was a long, long silence which seemed tight and nervous. Hopeless didn’t look away from the Grand Mages. His eyes looked normal now.

Valkyrie shifted from foot to foot, her heart pounding. What would they say? What were they thinking? Only Hopeless knew, but Valkyrie couldn’t stand this tension for much longer. Judging by the anxious look on Rover’s face and the way Dexter winced at Rover’s grip on his hand, she wasn’t the only one.

Dragunov muttered something that sounded like a curse in Russian, and took a drink. Strom continued to look down into the Tír’s orientation folder he was clutching, and Ode and Reticent were looking at _him_. Karrik looked at Ubuntu. Ubuntu looked back and nodded.

“The Cradles of Magic will stand together,” said Karrik. “Australia and the nations of Africa will stand with Ireland.”

Valkyrie saw Erskine exhale slowly.

“Estonia will also stand with Ireland,” said Kribu, more quietly. “I would like to know more about this Tír Tairngire.”

Governor Chiabuoto smiled. “We’d welcome the exchange. Ireland has been our only ally for a long time — we look forward to having more.”

Dragunov grunted. “ _Dimensional shrouds_ … you have taken the greatest of risks, Hopeless, do you know that? Did you know that Kerias had come to me, before you invited me into this room?”

“Yes,” said Hopeless. “I have a limit on distance; I didn’t know until today. But, yes, I knew before I had someone bring you in here.”

“And you brought me anyway,” said Dragunov, and shook his head; and then, unexpectedly, laughed. “ _That_ is nerve! And this _talking_ Bisahalani out of bombing Ireland — that was you as well?”

“Yes,” said Hopeless simply.

“And Mevolent,” said Dragunov. “I always did wonder how Meritorious knew about Mevolent, when no one else did.”

“I told him,” said Hopeless, and Dragunov laughed again. 

“No wonder Bisahalani hates you. You could take over the world.”

“I don’t want to take over the world,” said Hopeless with a small, wry laugh that sounded shaky. “Ireland is too much responsibility for me.” He lifted his hands and they were trembling madly, even more than before, and he laughed again, still shaky. “Just in case you weren’t convinced when I said I was terrified.”

Strom groaned, and seized the nearest drink to gulp it down. “Just please, _please_ tell me you have something in place in case the worst happens with your magic.”

“If I start to show signs of becoming an evil supervillain, I’m to be restrained and imprisoned,” said Hopeless, “and Guild and Bliss will govern jointly until I can be determined to be safe.”

“How does one make a mind-reader _safe_?” Dragunov demanded.

“I have a memory amethyst,” Erskine said, and he sounded snappish and terse for a moment before he modulated his tone. “It’s calibrated for influencing minds. And the Tír has been doing a lot of research on restraining magic and true names — research which is now in the hands of Kenspeckle Grouse.”

“Yes it is,” said Kenspeckle from his corner. Valkyrie caught him glowering around the room. “And I’m _not_ open to questions, so you can all have another think if you were planning on invading the Hibernian.”

“If I can’t be rendered safe,” Hopeless continued, and Rover made a noise like a dying cat, “then Bliss and Guild will select a Grand Mage — one who isn’t either of them, in order to prevent in-fighting. If the worst happens, it’s liable to happen in the middle of a war, and we won’t need that kind of distraction.”

“You’ve thought this through,” said Ode, sounding relieved.

“They’ve thought through a lot of things,” Reticent murmured, and gave Erskine a long thoughtful look. “How long _have_ you been planning this? I don’t recall giving you a firm answer as to my intentions.”

“Which part?” asked Erskine dryly, and shook his head. “There’s been a lot of moving parts, some of them older than others.”

The crowd around Hopeless started to scatter — not so far as to be out of the room, but to collect in their own conversations. Kribu made for Governor Chiabuoto. The Taoiseach went to join Erskine and Reticent. Dragunov made a bee-line for Bliss, and Hopeless waited for Strom with a patient smile while Saracen sidled up to his side with a second glass of water.

Valkyrie turned away from them all, and looked at her friends expectantly and with a huge grin.

“Surprise,” she said. Kara squeaked.

“Holy crap,” Ifrit burst out, his eyes bugging, and Valkyrie laughed. “Holy _crap_.”

“When you said we were going to define the future, you weren’t kidding,” said Farley with a shake of his head. “I just thought your cousin’s boyfriend was being weirdly cagey while talking about normal things.”

“That’s because he’s from the Tír and was trying to avoid talking about it,” said Valkyrie, and seized one of the cupcakes still left on the plate Natalie was still holding.

“Hey!” Natalie protested, but it was too late. Valkyrie flopped in the nearest chair, crossed her legs, and looked up at them.

“Question time starts now,” she said, and the grin still wasn’t going away. It probably wouldn’t for a long, long while.


	48. He walks among us

The night was quiet. Outside there was a fine drizzle, but that wasn't unusual for Dublin. Ghastly had the TV on, but down very low, and mostly so he could keep track of what was happening outside his closed doors and locked windows. His shop wasn't the same it used to be a couple of centuries ago, but it could still be a safe place.

He was meant to be measuring some fabric. Instead he was staring blankly at the near-silent TV, and the messages scrolling across it. The news hadn't stopped for three days straight, but varied depending on whether he was keyed into an international channel or a local one.

The local one was a medley of shocked condemnation and delight when it wasn’t focused on grim clean-up. When Death had been rendered incapacitated most of the zombies had dropped where they stood, which was conveniently lucky and something none of them were daring to question. Especially since the dinosaurs dropping dead again had caused the majority of the property damage, and no one’s insurance covered ‘destroyed by dinosaur’.

On the other hand, 'hoax' was the obvious declaration from anyone who hadn't been in Dublin. Ghastly had talked to Erskine on the phone that morning. They were doing their best to push that perspective, at least as far as the internet was concerned, without actively lying about it. Lying, for the Taoiseach, would be a bad thing right now.

Especially since the man was scheduled to have a press conference tomorrow morning with every reporter belonging to an Irish-owned media outlet. There was no way to keep this contained — there were too many pictures, too many videos, too many people who had seen dinosaurs walking and a ferry flying, and Anton taking on a tyrannosaur with his almost-bare hands.

Anyone divorced of the situation who looked at those pictures would find ways it couldn't be possible — but both Hopeless and the Taoiseach agreed they owed more than that to the people of Dublin.

It could have been worse. They could have been not ready at all. Instead Erskine's measures, and the Tír's experience, meant that a significant portion of prominent people already knew enough to fall in.

Tomorrow night, all of Ireland would know the truth about magic.

Tomorrow night, the walls of the internet would go up, an Irish version of the Great Firewall of China made possible only because of the Tír's creative magical-technology — which let them access the internet while leaving no marks of their own.

If they were lucky, there would soon be other governments in the know, enough to work together with smoothing the road as much as possible; enough to bring some of those walls down, slowly and over time. Well, slowly for a mortal ... measured in, maybe, a decade for a sorcerer. It wasn't that long.

If they were lucky.

Ghastly hoped Descry's God was listening to him right now. He glanced at his phone, was tempted to call —

But Hopeless had enough on his plate right now, and everyone else was probably assuming Ghastly had enough on his plate too.

That couldn't be further from the truth. He didn't have anything to do but sit and exist, the way he always had, with the TV silent and everything else too modern not exactly banished, but at least tucked somewhat out of view.

It probably wasn't necessary. Skulduggery wasn't _fragile_. But they were alien enough at a time like this that it was a small gesture Ghastly could afford.

The knocking at the door startled him into dropping his needle, and he heard a thud from his room in the back.

"All clear," he called back, shoving his chair back to peek out the window, expecting —

Well, honestly, expecting to be attacked.

Instead it was just Tanith outside, looking a bit damp but very nice in wet leather, and holding a large package under her coat to protect it rather than herself. Ghastly unbolted and unlocked the door to let her in.

"Thanks," she said, slipping in the gap he gave her before closing the door again, with the click-thud of the locks and bolts being secured in reverse order they'd just been un. She shook back her hair, made wavier in the damp, and shook rain off the coat as she hung it up.

"How's it going over there?" Ghastly asked, voice low.

"They were just about to pull everyone into a room when I left," said Tanith, "so at this point they're either celebrating or planning how to fight a war when the entire world knows the Grand Mage's secret."

Ghastly smiled slightly. "You mean those are mutually exclusive?"

She grinned at him, a flashing one which made his chest warm and some parts of him relax. All the Dead Men were tired, all of them had their issues. They were Ghastly's brothers. But, sometimes, Tanith was the one who made him relax. She was surprisingly uncomplicated. He liked that about her, more and more.

 _After this is over,_ he promised himself. They'd been going on small dates, little gestures — but he'd been busy, and holding back. They hadn't talked about it, but Tanith knew. After this was over ... or maybe before. He'd figure it out. But he _would_ say something. He would. He owed himself that much.

Hopeless knew it, too. That was why he'd sent only her.

"Is he sleeping?" Tanith asked, her voice soft. Ghastly shook his head and beckoned her deeper into his shop, into the living-area and the rooms just behind it.

"It's just a friend," he called into the back, and got a tray out from the kitchen. "I asked her to bring something from Hopeless we thought might help — if you want to."

There was initially no answer, but Ghastly could feel in the air the shape of someone standing just beyond the door, where they couldn't be seen. He set out a third cup, just in case ,but he was fairly sure the use of 'her' and the utter lack of explanation would woo Skulduggery out eventually. Curiosity never died. Not even when Skulduggery did.

"Thanks," said Tanith as he brought out the tea, setting her burden on the coffee-table — several of them. They were books, Descry's journals; the records he'd taken of the war which he hadn't told anyone, save the Dead Men, he had. They were the most complete records of the war in existence. "He said knowing Skulduggery, he's going to want the whole war."

Ghastly wondered whether Hopeless had written anything — incriminating — in them. If that was the reason why he hadn't often let anyone else read them ... maybe they were just that private. "Thank you."

He hadn't meant to look at them but when Ghastly sat down he found himself reaching for the one on top, plainly leather-bound and only with Hopeless's name in the inside cover — and a note on a piece of sticky-paper.

 _'I bookmarked where he left off,'_ was all it said, and Ghastly's heart skipped a beat, and his mouth dried up. Mechanically he opened the journal to one of Hopeless's leatherworked strips of a bookmark, the kind Anton or Erskine had made for him during those days spent damp and bored under canvas, waiting and waiting in camp.

The very first thing Ghastly saw was: _'Skulduggery is dead.'_

The writing was shaky, the ink was smudged. It had dried that way. All over the page, it was smudged, and even now Ghastly's throat closed and his chest tightened, and he felt the echoes of clutching grief that had never really gone away. Not for his mother, and not for Skulduggery. Not totally.

There was a footfall from behind him. Tanith looked up. Ghastly didn't flinch.

"Her?" asked Skulduggery, low and rough and remaining in the shadows, when Ghastly looked. He mustered a small smile.

"Tanith, this is Skulduggery Pleasant. Skul, this is Tanith Low. We've been — approaching going together."

Skulduggery's eyebrow raised, very fractionally. It was more like a twitch, really. It was a start. "Approaching?"

"It's not me, it's him," said Tanith with a smile. "Something about being worried I can't handle his brothers. Me, I like a man with scars."

She gave him that look that made him feel a little warmer than warm, and Ghastly's cheeks heated, and he cleared his throat. "Do you want tea?"

"No," said Skulduggery, and didn't move. Ghastly nodded.

"Okay. Do you want to know what Hopeless sent?"

"Yes."

Monosyllabic was a step up from the brittle inward-turned silence since Skulduggery had woken up. He'd talked, some — but mostly with that fragile calm that broken men had, and mostly to insist that Hopeless shouldn’t come near him.

Hopeless hadn’t. Ghastly didn’t know which of them needed that distance more right now, but since Hopeless had been sending baked goods with various Dead Men every day Ghastly was pretty sure it wasn’t because Hopeless was afraid of what he’d hear from Skulduggery’s mind.

That was why Ghastly was here, and Tanith was here, and no one else was. Skulduggery didn't know the Dead Men, and when they’d visited it had been for Ghastly, not for Skulduggery. Ghastly was all Skulduggery had right now.

For now. Only for now.

Besides, Hopeless was going to need just as much support, tonight. The Dead Men were where they should be.

"Ghastly?" Tanith asked, and Ghastly abruptly realised he'd fallen into thought, and shook his head. He didn't wait for Skulduggery to come over, but got to his feet with the journal in his hands, and pulled one of his chairs over to the corner next to Skulduggery.

"It's Hopeless's journals," he said, "of the war. Right up to the end."

"Actually," said Tanith, "the one on the bottom has pretty sparkly butterflies on it, so I'm pretty sure they go right up until very recently."

Skulduggery stirred. "... Sparkly butterflies."

"One of our friends likes shiny things," said Ghastly with a wobbly smile, and he held out the journal.

Slowly Skulduggery took it, staring down with that thousand-yard stare and a blank face. After the initial emotion of his revival, he'd seemed to stop knowing how to show it. Then again, he hadn't had a face in a while.

"I'll be right over here when you need me," said Ghastly quietly, and turned to go back to his chair, where he and Tanith could sit and drink tea in silence, as they had on a number of nights before: him with a needle and thread, and fabric over his lap, and her with her sword and polish. The difference was that most of those times had been while he and Skulduggery were estranged, and now they weren't.

When he was settled Ghastly glanced back, and saw Skulduggery sinking slowly into the chair, his gaze on journal's page; and he saw when Skulduggery's face twisted, and his shoulders shook.

Ghastly looked back toward his sewing. Outside, the rain continued to fall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there it is. Fun fact: my writing program said this novel came out at 144,666 words, which I think is a much more hilarious number than what AO3 claims.
> 
> A year is a long time, so in case any of you are hankering after more of my writing in general, if not in SPverse, I now have other works available at my [my website](https://aurichalcumpublishing.com/). I'd love to see some of you there! Just please remember to leave comments for those works in the correct place (ie, not here).


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